The Casebook of Harry Potter
by chris400ad
Summary: Daphne Greengrass wouldn't realise that a chance encounter at the age of eleven could have led her to have a life of adventure. Fourteen years later she meets Harry Potter again, this time over a dead body, but will she walk away or stay? He's a consulting detective and she's a healer, worlds apart from some, but for others, it could be just the beginning. AU.
1. First impressions, Twice Over

**AN: Just a few words about this story. First off, a lot of stuff has changed. I'm not going to say too much here, but there are things that are canon that in this story will be completely different. They'll be explained throughout, but they won't always be clear from the beginning. The main difference is that Harry, in this story, is very much like Sherlock Holmes. He can deduce, solve people and is rude, sometimes cruel and arrogant. I've based him off a variety of versions of the Holmes character as well as, hopefully, adding some of my own stuff. I read a HP fanfic that did something similar but made him be inspired by the books, in this Harry can just deduce things like Holmes himself and so is more of a modern/magical Holmes - which is something that I thought would be super interesting.**

 **Also, if any of you are coming into this hoping for a romance between Daphne and Harry, then I'm sorry to disappoint but that's not going to happen. Their friendship is very much that, a friendship, one which is set on the background of murder and mystery. This story is very much going to be about the two of them, like the Sherlock Holmes books, TV shows and films. I've read a few of the books, watched most of the TV shows a couple of the films so I feel like I know a decent amount about the characters. Also, Daphne is going to be very much her own character, both different from Watson and fanon.**

 **Special thanks to Taliesin19 for betaing this for me!**

 **But that's it, as usual I own nothing and if you guys want to get in touch feel free to PM or leave a review. I hope you all like it!**

Chapter One: First Impressions, Twice Over

 _Everyone my age has the same story._

 _They tell it over and over again to one another. To people who weren't there, who missed out on the chance simply for being born a few years too late._

 _It's the same one every time but with minor variations because no one ever knew him. He had no friends. Plenty of enemies, sure. Fans or those who simply remained indifferent amidst the tales of awe and wonder. And though they all had different opinions of him, their story stays the same. And they continue to tell it as if it were somehow unique to them._

 _Why? Because they're obsessed. Because all it took for him was one look, one instant to be able to unravel them completely. But now it falls to me to tell my story—one of the few versions that, despite sharing the same beginning, takes a much different turn._

 _This is the story of how I met Harry Potter. Saviour of the Wizarding World. Infamous detective. But more importantly, my friend._

Taken from Chapter One of The Chronicles of Harry Potter, written by Daphne Greengrass

oOo

Daphne Greengrass dragged her trunk along the carriage, trying to balance her owl on top as she searched for a compartment. She glanced through the glass each time she went past one, finding them all full of older Hogwarts students, despite arriving at Kings Cross ten minutes early so as to make sure she got a seat.

Astoria had burst into tears as soon as they'd arrived and begged Daphne not to go. Her tears had then started their mother crying as well which had, in turn, made Daphne join them. It was the only part of going to Hogwarts that she knew she was going to hate, not being able to see her family every day. She had enough experience with that already.

Peering into yet another compartment, expecting to see a group of Hogwarts students, she was taken aback by the sight of a small, bespectacled boy sitting alone in the compartment with a snowy white owl sitting a cage on the seat next to him. He had a mop of messy black hair that stuck up in odd places, making it seem as though he had only just got out of bed. His head was bowed slightly as he read the book that lay open on his lap while he took notes. Other books lay scattered on the seat next to him, pieces of paper strewn over them, covered in long, curvy handwriting. Daphne knocked on the door before sliding it open.

At the sound, the boy turned to her, his emerald green eyes fixing on hers for a brief moment with a rather calculating expression on his pale face.

"Sorry, is that seat taken?" Daphne asked, smiling nervously and gesturing to the seat opposite him that wasn't taken up by paper and books. When he shook his head, looking back down to his work she asked "Do you mind if I join you?"

He simply raised a hand, gesturing at the seat and never raising his eyes to look at her.

"Thanks," she said, a little unnerved as she pulled her trunk into the compartment and shutting the door behind her as she did so.

It took a long moment for her to heft the heavy trunk into the overhead compartment above the empty seat. And all the while the boy said nothing, too focused on writing his notes, his hand darting across the page just as quickly as his eyes as he read.

When she'd finally managed to put her trunk away, she opened it and retrieved one of her textbooks before sitting down. She waited a moment, not sure if she should say anything. This boy, whoever he was, clearly wasn't a social butterfly. But after another few minutes of awkward silence Daphne spoke, unable to take it any longer. "I'm Daphne, by the way."

"Harry Potter," he said glancing up at her and registering the shock on her face.

He couldn't be serious could he? He couldn't be Harry Potter. The Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. She knew he would be her age. In the back of her mind she'd been looking forward to meeting him, meeting the boy of legend. But he definitely wasn't what she'd been expecting, at least judging by his appearance—baggy jeans that didn't fit him properly and taped glasses that had been broken in half. Hiding underneath his long fringe, Daphne could just make out the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead.

Realising she'd been staring, she moved her eyes back down to his, but they were concentrated on the book once again.

"The Boy-Who-Lived? I mean THE Boy-Who-Lived?"

Harry nodded. "So I've heard; the whole of the Leaky Cauldron was rather eager to tell me," he said, turning a page in his book. "When did they break up, your parents?"

Daphne felt as though she'd been punched in the stomach. Open-mouthed she stared at him, not sure that she'd heard him correctly. How could he know? How could he possibly know about that? It took her a moment to speak, still reeling from his words. She wanted to object to what he'd said, to deny it, maybe even throw insults at him for knowing something she'd never told anyone, but curiosity got the better of her. "How do you know about that?"

"Can't have been easy," Harry continued, ignoring her question. "Still, you're clearly eager to learn at school. A refreshing change. Every other pureblood I've met simply wants to coast through. Probably because they've been so exposed to this world that they think they know how it works."

"How did you know I'm pureblood?"

"Your trunk and earrings," Harry told her, pointing to them both, "they're both expensive. The trunk is new, too, so it's not an heirloom of some sort and diamonds aren't exactly the kind of thing that every eleven year-old has. The fact that you're also wearing a ruby ring suggests that they aren't your only valuable items. That and you recognised me by name suggesting your family is magical. Also, there's a family crest on your trunk, it's kind of give you away. The Greengrasses can trace their heritage back almost 15 generations, yes?"

"I never said I was a Greengrass."

"Insignia," Harry said. "Like I said, slight giveaway. I may have been brought up by muggles, but I've read a lot about this world as soon as I found out I was a part of it."

"Okay," Daphne nodded, trying to process what had just happened. "But what was that about me looking forward to Hogwarts? And how did you know about my parents?"

"Your textbooks are all well-read. You're rich, you didn't need to buy second hand. So, you've done the reading yourself. More than once. That and several of them aren't on the reading list. As for your parents, the man's chain you're wearing, it was your father's, something to remember him by. That, the bags under your eyes and the fact that only your mother was here to send you off all point to separation."

"That was amazing," Daphne breathed, staring at the boy in front of her. She had spent her whole life living with magic but had never seen anything quite so special. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"I taught myself. My aunt and uncle didn't like me asking questions, so I found a way to get answers on my own. Astonishingly, their reasons for secret keeping were mind-numbingly petty, but it was a useful skill to develop."

Daphne wanted to ask more but at that exact moment there was a knock on the compartment door which was then opened to reveal a rather round-faced boy with dark brown hair. Daphne could see, even from her spot by the window, the welled up tears in his eyes.

"Sorry," the boy said, his face flushing slightly as Harry's eyes turned on him. "But have you seen a toad at all?"

When both Harry and Daphne shook their heads he began cry, the tears streaming steadily down his face. He brushed them away with the back of his sleeve, trying to stem the now flowing waterfall.

A wave of sympathy crashed over Daphne as she looked at the boy before her.

"I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"

"If you've looked in every compartment then try looking in your trunk," Harry advised, turning to the window.

"I already have," the boy said with a small sob. "I looked everywhere but I couldn't find him. Then Hermione suggested I come and search the other compartments for him but..."

"But you didn't look; I mean really look, did you?"

Harry glanced at Daphne, as if looking to her to share in his exasperation. "People never do. Did you look under your clothes or under your books?" he asked impatiently, getting up from his seat to face the boy who was staring back at him slightly open-mouthed, making it clear that he hadn't.

Daphne had done the same once when she'd been looking for her wand the day after she'd bought it from Ollivander. She'd searched everywhere in her room, turned the house upside down in her hunt for it. She'd felt so stupid when she'd found it under her school robes in her trunk when she could have sworn she'd left it on her desk.

"Thought not. It's safe to say your toad's under there just looking for a little safety. Goodbye."

There was a brief moment in which the boy stared at Harry, not sure whether to say anything or not, before Harry slid the door shut in his face. He let out a sigh before throwing himself back down on his seat, receiving an angry hoot from his owl which he ignored, preferring instead to stare pensively out of the window. His movements, Daphne thought, could almost be described as theatrical, just like his grand deductions were. It was simply amazing; there was no other word for it. There was also the way he'd basically insulted the crying boy and yet helped him at the same time.

From what she had seen so far, Harry Potter really was a mystery.

"Which house do you want to be in, then?" Daphne asked, drawing Harry back to the world inside the compartment.

"Ravenclaw."

Of course, what else would it be?

"At least there I might find someone interesting for a change."

"You're very full of yourself, aren't you?"

"With good reason," he said. "How about you? What House do you want to be in?"

"My parents were in Slytherin," Daphne said, remembering her mother's words from earlier. "Dad's not bothered which house I get sorted into as long as I'm happy. That's the great thing about him working in the auror office. He sees that houses don't really matter after school. Mum says the same, but I know she wants me to be in Slytherin like her. The rest of the family too. It'd be breaking tradition if I got sorted into any other house. I mean, the last person in my family not to be sorted into Slytherin was my great-great Uncle Benji, and nobody talks about him."

"You don't want to be an outcast."

Daphne frowned. It wasn't just a deduction this time; there was something in his voice that betrayed an inner sympathy. He didn't just see what she was feeling, he knew it. She tried to look at him, but he had cast his eyes back down to his work, refusing to meet her gaze.

"I want to make mum happy too," Daphne admitted.

"But?" Harry probed, "obviously there's an issue, or you wouldn't be so insistently hesitating. You don't want to be a Slytherin."

"No," Daphne muttered.

"Then don't. What do you think would make your mother happier? Her daughter doing well, being happy and surrounded by like-minded people, or being sorted into the family house," Harry said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

The argument that had been ready to start on Daphne's lips died away at his words. She'd spent so long focusing on the idea that her mum would disapprove of her being sorted into a different House because Slytherin was truly the right House for any pureblood, that she hadn't considered the idea that the opposite might happen. What if he was right? Would Daphne's happiness mean more than keeping with tradition? In families like the Malfoy's perhaps not, but she wasn't a Malfoy. For one, the Greengrasses hadn't sided with You-Know-Who in the war. So maybe the pureblood ideals wouldn't matter as much.

Maybe?

A hollow kind of silence settled between the two of them, Harry's focus back on his book and Daphne's eyes staring unseeing out of the window. She only looked up when she heard the door open once more followed by the appearance of a familiar face. It wasn't the boy with the toad this time. The newcomer was an auburn haired girl that Daphne had known since early childhood. Tracey Davis stared exasperatedly at her.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," Tracey announced. She ran a hand through her hair, sweeping it back out of her face. "Thought you said you were coming to sit with us?"

"I was, but when I checked, the compartment was full." _Too much Malfoy for my liking_ , Daphne added silently. "So I thought I'd come find somewhere else."

"They weren't stopping," Tracey muttered darkly.

So Tracey had seen through Malfoy's smarmy persona then, Daphne thought. Draco Malfoy was an arrogant, opinionated git that nobody liked, but everyone fawned over just because of his father. Daphne had spent the majority of her childhood trying to avoid any interaction with him, but the kind of gatherings that her mother always went to often forced the issue. There were only a few purebloods her age that went to those kinds of things and her mother always insisted that she should try and make friends.

"So, there's room if you still want to come join us." Tracey paused, noticing Harry for the first time. "Your friend could come too?"

Harry glanced up at her, his eyes darting up and down. He said nothing, instead cashing his eyes back down to his work.

"Or not?" Tracey frowned, but then she shrugged and looked expectantly at Daphne. Daphne almost hesitated. She had strangely been enjoying her conversation with Harry. Yes, he was rude and abrasive, but he'd cared enough to talk about her life. She wondered why he didn't want to be that open with anyone else. But that was his choice, not hers, and besides, Daphne had barely seen Tracey for the last few weeks since she'd gone to France with her parents for the holidays.

"Would you mind helping with this?" Daphne asked, gesturing to the trunk as she got to her feet.

Together, she and Tracey managed to haul it back down without too much effort, and then they headed out of the compartment, Tracey taking the lead. As she got to the door, Daphne turned around to look back at Harry. His head was still bowed over his work, but there was something different about him. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on. It looked almost like he wasn't reading at all, just staring.

"See you around," Daphne said eventually.

He glanced at her and nodded, making a small humming noise as he did so. Daphne turned away, sliding the door shut behind her and following her friend down the corridor.

oOo

 _Fourteen Years Later…_

The sun was high in the sky, the sky was clear, and England was treated to a beautiful day. But Daphne Greengrass, qualified healer and junior on the Magical Bugs and Diseases ward, wasn't aware of any of this pure wonder. All around her there were men bustling around her. They had already taken her statement and were proceeding to examine the room. The thought of it made her feel sick. She'd seen dead bodies before, of course she had, but she'd never seen one out of a morgue. She remembered his eyes, they'd been open wide and bulging, desperately screaming for help that would never come.

It was supposed to be a normal day. When she had woken up that morning, she hadn't even thought for a second that this would happen. But then, who woke up and thought they'd find a corpse? Not just a corpse, but a ruined office. There had been books strewn everywhere, glass shattered all over the floor. Not to mention the creepy note from someone who claimed that they were 'killing for muggleborns'. Who even did that? What kind of person thought that murder could be for a good cause?

"Miss Greengrass?"

The voice was gentle and soothing. Daphne looked up into the face of the auror that she had spoken to earlier. Hopkins, he'd said his name was Hopkins. His face was stoic and hard, his grey eyes rested on her own but there was a calmness there. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," Daphne lied.

How could she possibly be okay? She'd just been here to do her job, a simple in and out, and then back to the ward for a day of shouting, abuse, and barely any gratitude. But that was the life of a healer. Double-shifts, no sleep, and snippets of human decency being over-shadowed by complaints.

"I was wondering if you wouldn't mind speaking to an associate of mine?" Hopkins asked. He looked hesitant like he didn't want to be asking the question.

"Another auror?" Daphne frowned, confused. "But I thought you'd taken my statement?"

"Not quite. He…consults for us," Hopkins explained. "Now, you don't have to talk to him if you don't want to, but it could be a great help."

"Of course."

She just wanted to go home and get this over with. Just one more conversation, and then it would all be over. Hopkins turned away and headed to a small huddle of robed figures. One of them nodded and walked across the hallway that Daphne had found herself in, and towards the front door.

There was a brief pause, and then another man walked in. He was tall and dressed completely different to any of the other aurors. They all wore their Ministry mandated robes, long and black and absent of all colour. Whereas this man wore an outfit that Daphne could only describe as muggle. A dark grey blazer, black shirt and matching trousers with a pair of battered dark, brown boots. She knew plenty of wizards and witches who preferred to dress like their muggle counter-parts, but the sight still made her frown. If he was trying to make a statement, it was working.

It was only as he drew closer that Daphne recognised him. It had been years, and they'd both done a lot of growing up, but there was no mistaking the messy black hair, round-glasses or scar on his forehead. This was none other than Harry Potter.

Hopkins met him halfway across the hall and started muttering hurriedly. Some of the other aurors were staring at Harry with a mixture of apprehension and disapproval. Whatever he was doing there, it was clear they didn't like it.

Harry said something that Daphne couldn't quite hear. Hopkins nodded, and she watched as Harry disappeared into the office. About a minute later he returned to Hopkins' side, and together, the two men headed towards Daphne.

"Miss Greengrass," Hopkins began as he drew closer, "this is -"

"We've met," Harry interrupted. "You're a healer, now?"

Daphne glanced at Hopkins who shrugged. At least some things hadn't changed then. "Yeah, I qualified a few years ago, it's why I'm here. I work on Bugs and Diseases. Part of what we do is making sure that people with extreme cases of diseases are settling back into their home lives."

"Especially when they live alone," Harry added.

Daphne frowned, not entirely sure how he'd made that particular leap. He'd begun moving as he talked, applying pressure to the various oak floorboards as he did so. There was a squeak on the second one nearest the door. He stopped, moving up on the ball of his feet and then applying pressure. More squeaking. He nodded. "Still, house-elf must be kept busy." He frowned, crossing over to the table nearest Daphne where an empty vase stood. He lifted it, running a finger along the surface of the table. "Used to."

"She was sent away two weeks ago when Mr. Fawley insisted," Daphne told him, "he said he didn't want her wandering around an empty house on her own. He'd already been with us for a few months, and I think he felt guilty about leaving her here. She works for one of his relatives now. That's part of why I'm here, he had no-one to look after him."

"What did he have?"

"Cerebrumous Spattergroit," Daphne answered, "it's a type of sub-strain of Spattergroit."

"The pustules thing?" Hopkins asked, a look of disgust on face.

"It's slightly worse than that. Though it has all of the normal symptoms, primarily purple pustules, it also comes with confusion or memory loss. In Mr Fawley's case it was the latter, which is strange."

"In what way, strange?" This time it was Harry that had asked. He had stopped his pacing and was instead staring intently at Daphne.

"Well, one of the main points of reference we have comes from 1877, but it's barely been seen since. There have been a few isolated cases, but I've never heard of anything affecting someone like this. Usually people forget names, places, but they can still remember some of the sensory details, or they get them confused with other memories. But Mr Fawley was different. He couldn't remember anything about certain parts of his life, but others he was perfectly fine."

"In what way?"

"Well, he couldn't remember how he got to St Mungo's or what he'd been doing beforehand. I thought that was strange, so I told Healer Andrews, but he told me to stay out of it."

"The hierarchy of bureaucracy," Harry muttered bitterly. "The only system that allows the promotion of stupidity over intelligence."

"You're not saying this is linked to whatever wound him up in the hospital?" Hopkins frowned. "I mean it's a disease, right? Rare, sure, but not unheard of."

"Do you know the statistical likelihood of a man who isolates himself contracting such a rare form of a highly contagious disease? Which, if I'm not mistaken, is an airborne disease, yes?"

Daphne nodded.

"I assure you the chances are not high."

"But that's nothing like what we're dealing with here," Hopkins said.

"Isn't it?" Harry asked.

He moved over to the door. It was an old, large oak door. The frame it stood in was cracked and splintered. Daphne had noticed a dark boot print when she'd walked through it earlier that day. The office itself had been a mess, notes everywhere, books scattered on the floor and… She took a deep breath, she didn't want to picture that again.

Harry hunkered down and was staring intently at the boot print. He hummed before turning back to the aurors.

"If Miss Greengrass is correct, which I believe she is, and not everything with this man's illness is as it seems, then it makes logical sense to assume that this crime scene may not also be as it seems, no?" He looked around at the assembled aurors, one of them shrugged, another fidgeted uneasily under Harry's hard stare. "Note which door has been broken."

"That matters because…?"

"Because, had this been an actual break-in, then surely it would be the front door that would have taken the brunt of the intruder's beating," Harry pointed out. "Yet, it is perfectly fine. This, however, is broken. Of course, the intruder could have worked his way through whatever protection blocked the first entrance and alerted Mr Fawley to their presence here—" Harry stepped on the squeaky floorboard again, bouncing up and down a couple of times to make his point. "—But if you look closely you'll see a small droplet of blood imprinted on the door."

Hopkins frowned and gestured to one of his aurors. A tall woman that Daphne thought looked vaguely familiar stepped forwards. She crouched down, and there was a long moment of silence as she looked for what Harry had seen. But then she nodded.

"Blood," Harry continued, "that could only have come from the killer after he committed the crime."

"He?" Daphne asked, despite herself. Everyone turned to look at her, and she suddenly felt like a small child speaking up in front of a room full of adults. They stared at her like she'd been one of the first things to crawl out of the ocean, all except Harry.

He nodded, the ghost of something that looked like a smile on his lips. "Footprints. There were some left by the killer as he escaped through the window in the office. Judging by the boot size and the gait, I'd estimate that he's about six foot four. Also, the bruising on the neck suggests larger hands, rather atypical of a woman."

Daphne grimaced a little but she couldn't help but agree with him. She could remember exactly what he'd looked like, the shape of the bruises, everything. He had been a tall man, strong, even after his time in St. Mungo's. It wouldn't have been easy for anyone to overpower him like that, not without magic anyway. Everything so far seemed to point to a murderer who had no magic—the broken door, the note, the way that Mr Fawley had died, and the smashed window through which they'd seemingly made their escape. Any wizard would have just disapparated. Anti-apparition wards were expensive, after all, and the expertise needed to craft them wasn't easy to come by. Fawley was rich, but even he might have trouble.

"But what about the note?" the female auror asked.

Harry frowned and turned to her, but unlike when he had looked at Daphne, he didn't appear to be pleased with this woman. Instead, there was a thinly veiled look of disappointment on his face.

"The note," Harry said bitterly, drawing his wand from the inside of his jacket. He gave it a quick flick, summoning it to his hand. It had been written on a folded sheet of paper, ripped on one side and scrawled hastily. "' _There is no alternative, no other course, they sought to eradicate us and yet they go unpunished. I do this not for myself, but for muggleborns like me who were not so fortunate_.'"

He stopped reading, looking up at the aurors who surrounded him as if expecting them to say something. But they just stared at him nonplussed. He sighed.

"Utter nonsense," Harry muttered heatedly. "While it's true he served on the Muggleborn Registration Committee, it is not the reason for his death."

"Then what do you think happened?" Hopkins asked with an air of impatience, apparently sick of Harry's theatrics.

"Fawley knew his guest, he let him in and they talked, that much is obvious," Harry said. "The amount of glass on the floor, it wasn't enough for one."

"There was only one bottom piece of a glass," a different auror interrupted this time.

Harry ignored him. "Fawley clearly knew his killer. He invited him in, but then there was a struggle and Fawley was killed. As Miss Greengrass has already helpfully pointed out, whoever our killer is, they are also well versed in hiding their tracks. If they weren't, they wouldn't be able to hide memory alteration as spatergroit. It isn't much of a leap to assume that they would go to similar lengths to hide their role in a murder."

"This note that you all are so fond in believing is, in fact, nothing short of a hastily, but well made, forgery. You'll notice that the paper itself is rather inconsistent." He held it up to the light. "In parts it is almost transparent and in others, denser. No real paper, of course, is manufactured in this way. It is, if I am not mistaken, a rather adept but flawed attempt at transfiguration."

Harry held it out to Hopkins. "If you please?"

The aged auror took it with a slight frown. Harry waited a moment before waving his wand. The paper shimmered and then changed, becoming rounder, harder. It had gone from being a piece of paper to a large shattered piece of glass. Clinging to the surface were several droplets of dark whiskey that must have been what had caused the paper to look as it did.

"Base of glass number two," Harry said slowly as if he were speaking to children, looking pointedly at the brown-haired man who had interrupted before. "Not a premeditated note of murderous intent. Killers like this wouldn't just leave a note, they'd want it to be advertised for everyone to see. There was no guarantee that the body would be found. Miss Greengrass could easily have given up when her knocking went unanswered. Her diligence, whilst admirable, was not a certainty. No murderer intent on sending such a message would risk their work being undiscovered.

"This was no break-in, ritualistic killing, it was a well concealed but ordinary murder. So, might I suggest you look through a rather different pool of suspects than any muggleborn you can find. Friends or family perhaps? Rather logical given the fact he was attempting to change his will. Or had you not noticed that the papers on the floor were drafts of that very same document?"

There was a stony silence. Harry arched an eyebrow, his finger drumming an irregular beat on his leg as he waited impatiently for a response.

"Alright," Hopkins said eventually, "Abbott," the female auror, who Daphne had thought she recognised earlier but now knew must be Hannah Abbott, stepped forwards, "you and Delaney see what you can find about a will. Jones pull up the old files from the committee, even if it might be a dead end, it's worth making sure. The rest of you finish up here."

An organised bustling began as the assembled aurors, probably grateful of something to do, began hurrying around. Most of them vanished into the office, two stayed in the hall, and the three that Hopkins had singled out headed for the door. None of them looked too happy. But if Harry was right, then that wouldn't matter. His work might have saved them days or weeks of effort and bad leads. Sure, he was rude and abrupt, but he was helpful, just as he'd been all those years ago when she'd first met him on the train to Hogwarts.

There was one thought Daphne couldn't quite shake, however. Despite his prickly exterior, he was helping solve crimes and bringing justice to the dead. Surely someone who hated people as he appeared to, wouldn't care to do that, would they?

"I think that's all we'll be needing from you, Miss Greengrass," Hopkins said, his voice taking on that calm and gentle tone it had earlier. Behind him, Daphne saw Harry roll his eyes. "We'll let you know if we need anything else. Would you like someone to escort you back?"

"I think I should be fine, thank you." Daphne forced a smile, one that she knew didn't even look anywhere near genuine.

"It'd be safer -"

"It's a departmental guideline," Harry interrupted, "to stop accidental shock induced splinching. I think Miss Greengrass has seen enough aurors for one day. Perhaps I should take her?"

"You?"

"I am quite capable," Harry muttered with a trace of sourness.

Before the head auror could open his mouth to snap back, Daphne quickly said, "I think that might be a good idea. Thank you for your offer though, Auror Hopkins."

"So long as you're sure," Hopkins shrugged. "We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

Harry gave him a disparaging look, and then arched an eyebrow at Daphne. He waited for her to move to his side, and then together, they headed out of the house filled with aurors, away from the body, and Daphne hoped, away from all of this.


	2. Food for Thought

Chapter Two: "Food for Thought"

"That was nice of you," Daphne said after a while.

She and Harry had walked a few streets away from the house of Matthew Fawley in complete silence, Harry glancing over his shoulder a few times in the process. The closer they got to town, the more people were wandering around, all of them trying to show off as much skin to the sun hanging high in the midday sky. Here and there, Daphne would notice a wand or a badly disguised horn or two. It was always the way in wizarding towns, hiding wasn't as much of a concern. But muggles would still sometimes stumble across them.

"What was?"

"The way you made sure I'd get back okay," Daphne said with a bit of hesitation.

"Oh," Harry nodded, the look of idle bemusement lifting from his face. "No. It's a moronic guideline. If you feel unsafe walk, catch a bus. If not, apparate. Your choice. No, I just wanted to look at this."

He came to an abrupt halt, and Daphne almost carried on walking. She sighed and watched as he pulled out a folded piece of parchment from the inside of his jacket pocket.

"What is that?"

"The attempted amendment of the last will and testament of one Matthew Fawley," Harry told her. "I picked it up while Hopkins wasn't looking. Don't worry, I left them with a copy, shouldn't be too hard to swap once this is all over. But that's not important-"

"Stealing evidence isn't important?"

"What _is_ important," Harry continued a little sourly, "is the drafted recipient of almost the entire family fortune." He held it out for Daphne to read.

"Alastair Macmillan?"

"Evidently they are good friends," Harry said, "but what's also interesting is that he leaves his wife, Eleanor Fawley, only a few thousand galleons. Yet there's been a well-documented public appearance from the two over the last few years, stopping roughly two years ago."

Daphne looked at him, not entirely sure how he'd gathered that.

"I read a lot. I find it's important to keep an up-to-date understanding of pureblood families and their relations. But what all of this suggests is that his wife was in the process of having her role in the will drastically reduced until today, when Matthew Fawley was murdered and his efforts were undone."

"But you said it was a man who killed him, not a woman," Daphne pointed out. "So, it can't have been her."

"No," Harry agreed. "But the evidence suggests that it was someone who would gain from her retaining her standing in the will. It can't have been changed, of course. The document was in a prime location on his desk. Nobody would keep it there if the changes had already been made, which means that he was still in the process of working out the finer details. For instance, what will happen to his many properties? None of them are listed here. I doubt a man with such a meticulous nature would leave something like that unspecified."

He chewed at his lip, emerald eyes darting around the street and fingers beating rapidly together. Daphne could practically see that brilliant brain working flat out, almost as if his body couldn't stay still as he desperately sought an answer.

"But it can't have been her," Daphne said, "you told us it was a man."

"It was," Harry assured her. "So it's someone else, someone who benefits from her getting the money. But why would he change his will now?"

"It's typical really, patients who have never had a real health scare before tend to realise their mortality. It's part of why I was a bit suspicious when he came in with what he did."

"How so?"

"Well, he just wasn't the type to contract a disease like that," Daphne said, feeling odd that she was explaining something to Harry. "It generally affects the elderly, the young or people with weak immune systems. But he wasn't like that at all."

"Plus the selective memory wiping," Harry added, "all suggests foul play. But from who? The timing is obvious: the will. It'd have to be someone close to him, someone he trusted implicitly. What family did he have left?"

"Just his wife. His son died in the war."

Harry hummed and nodded. "What about friends, colleagues?"

"No-one, he shut himself off after the Ministry sacked him."

Harry let out an annoyed sigh. "I'm going to have to talk to her."

"You don't know where she lives, do you?" Daphne said. Apparating was difficult enough as it was, even harder when there was no way to visualise the destination.

"No, but you do. You're his healer, you'd need to know the residence of his next of kin."

"Yeah, but that's -"

"Confidential? Yes, I imagine it was until he died, thus freeing you from whatever agreement you had together."

"I can't just tell you where his wife lives, it's private."

"Need I remind you that a man is dead?" Harry asked impatiently. His voice had risen drastically and he was starting to attract the attention of idle passers-by. "What's more important, honouring an agreement that your job dictates is significant in a bid to maintain the illusion of privacy, or trying to help to me discover who killed him? It's up to you."

Daphne heard herself sigh. She knew he was right. It went against everything she had been taught about the importance of patients' privacy, but the man was dead. And if this could help them figure out who killed him, then wasn't it worth it? Besides, the last time that she'd followed the rules, she'd been ignored. If Harry was right and he had been poisoned or cursed, then Daphne had played a role in not flagging this up sooner. She couldn't just stand by and watch it happen again.

"Fine," Daphne said eventually.

"Address," Harry said bluntly, and then after a moment, "please."

"It's…" Daphne faltered, desperately trying to remember. But there was so many different addresses swimming around in her mind that it was difficult to pin all of them to the right people. Usually she just apparated. She could picture it better, and there was no need to remember it after she had been there once.

Her stomach dropped as the realisation of what that meant hit her.

"I don't know," Daphne admitted, "but I can take you."

She half-expected him to refuse in a misguided ego trip, or because he didn't think it was her place. After all, any auror would have shot her down point-blank and went about it another way. But aurors had access to the information that Harry didn't, and right now, he couldn't exactly go swanning up to them and hope that they would help. Not without explaining why he needed to talk to Mrs Fawley, anyway, and that wasn't going to happen. He was arrogant, not stupid.

What she didn't expect was for him to nod and hold out his hand for her to take.

"Well?" he asked when Daphne said nothing. "Haven't got all day."

"Right." Daphne closed her eyes and tried to picture the house. It was old, in the country, far away from the hubbub of busy urban life just like most pureblood houses.

She took his hand. The skin felt rough to the touch, unlike hers which was smooth and free of calluses. Healers generally didn't get their hands dirty. The most she had to do was brew the occasional potion or stun an aggressive patient. But Harry seemed to have taken a different path. Whatever his world demanded of him, it was clearly a lot.

She closed her eyes and pictured the old house. It sat at the end of a long driveway, obscured by tall hedges and an ornate black gate. It was modest and well-to-do, all sun-burnt orange bricks and faded, and black painted doors and window frames. Daphne held her breath and turned on the spot, the familiar sense of too much movement and not enough space overcoming her. Then, as soon as it came it was gone. Daphne opened her eyes and saw the picture that had been in her mind's eye come to life.

"Doesn't look much for the home of an aristocrat," Harry commented.

"She's the ex-wife of a disgraced lord," Daphne pointed out, "what were you expecting?"

"Something a bit grander," Harry said as he withdrew his wand and tapped it on the gate. The metal of the wrought iron bars shimmered and then melted away. It was an old type of ward, designed only to let magical people in. "Let's face it, your lot aren't exactly known for subtlety."

Daphne bit back the retort she wanted to lash out at him with, primarily because she remembered the house that she'd grown up in, and the one that stood before her wasn't even half its size. Greengrass manor was gigantic. It had been added on to by generation after generation of Greengrasses until it had become so large that she could have gone days without seeing her family if she had put her mind to it. But that didn't stop Harry's generalisation rubbing her up the wrong way.

They walked up the driveway in relative silence, their footsteps crunching on the gravel underfoot. It was so surreal. She should be at work, taking care of people that didn't even register that she was a real human being, not walking up the driveway of a murder victim's wife. A wife that, if Astoria's circle of gossiping friends were to be believed, hadn't gotten on with her husband for almost two years.

Daphne almost stopped then, teetering on the edge of the thought. She didn't belong here, she should just go. Harry didn't need her anymore. And yet, Daphne couldn't help but get wrapped up in the intrigue of it all. She needed to know, she needed a resolution. So she stayed.

As they reached the end of the drive, Harry knocked on the door which was pulled open seconds later to reveal a woman who was taller than Daphne. Her hair was dark red and fell elegantly around her shoulders, freckles were splattered across her delicate face which was scrunched up in confusion.

"May I help you?" the woman who Daphne assumed must be Mrs. Fawley asked. If she had been living with her husband, then Daphne was sure they would have been greeted by a dutiful house elf. But that was a perk she was no longer entitled to.

"Yes, Mrs. Fawley, my name is Harry Potter and this is my..." He paused, gesturing at Daphne with a long, stretched out arm. He glanced at her, then back to Mrs Fawley. There was an awkward moment in which no one spoke. "Associate," he decided eventually, "Daphne Greengrass. We're here to talk about your husband. We're working with the auror department."

"Yes. Come in," Mrs Fawley said. Her dark brown eyes darted fervently back towards the inside of the house so fast that Daphne wasn't even sure that it had happened. Daphne frowned. Something felt off, but she followed Harry and the dead man's wife into the house.

The hall was clean and simple with dark, blue wallpaper lining the walls. But aside from that, they were rather bare. Some patches of the wall were faded, and Daphne could see the holes from where nails had been.

Probably pictures of her old family, Daphne thought.

They were led into a more spacious living room. A leather arm chair sat next to a matching chesterfield sofa in the middle of the room, both were dark brown and almost pristine. On a similarly coloured mahogany table, was a wind-up gramophone, and stacked on the bookcase next to it were several records and leather-bound books. Even the mantelpiece matched. The entire room was an interior designer's palace.

"Please, take a seat," Mrs Fawley said as she took the chair. "So, you said you wanted to ask me some questions about my husband? I'm not sure how much help I can be. It's been weeks since I've spoken to Matthew."

"Mrs Fawley," Harry started.

"Please, call me Evelyn."

"Evelyn," Harry continued, a little impatiently. "Your husband is dead. He died this morning."

"Dead?" Evelyn repeated, her hand going to her mouth.

Daphne shot Harry a pointed stare as the grieving woman's eyes cast down to the floor.

He only shrugged, mouthing the word 'what?'

It took everything she had not to hit him. Had they not been sitting in front of a freshly traumatised woman, then she would have done.

"Yes," Harry said, giving a disparaging look Daphne's way. "He was murdered."

Evelyn said nothing, just carried on staring off into space. Tears were starting to well up in her dark brown eyes.

"We think it may have something to do with his will," Daphne added. She wasn't sure why she said it. It may have been because Harry was clearly so ill-equipped to deal with people or because she couldn't just sit there and watch him inadvertently upset her any more than he already had done. Or maybe it was none of that, and she was just too invested in this to stay silent. Whatever the reason, it was Harry's turn to dish out the pointed stare. Daphne ignored him.

"Why? He's not changed it for years."

"How do you know that? Could he have changed it without telling you?" Daphne asked.

"We have the same lawyer, he'd have told me," Evelyn insisted.

At this point, Harry had seemingly grown bored of the conversation and sprung to his feet with the speed of a firebolt. He crossed over the mantle, examining the various knickknacks and assorted items that were on display. Daphne hadn't even paid them any attention as she'd walked in.

"Perhaps he asked to keep it a secret?" Daphne suggested, taking up the slack that Harry was leaving in his silence. He was the investigator, not her. "Would you mind telling us what was in your husband's will? It could really help."

"He left it all to her," Harry interjected loudly. He was staring at a picture that sat in a small frame on the mantle. "Rather obvious really."

Evelyn gaped like an owl that had just discovered it had free will and didn't really have to lug everyone's mail around anymore.

"Mrs Fawley, who are these people?"

"What?"

Harry picked up the photograph and practically shoved it in the poor woman's face. Her eyes, no longer welled up with tears, now widened in shock. Daphne just stared, not entirely sure what was happening before her.

"In the photograph. I assumed you'd know, seeing as this is your house, and that is you, your husband and..." he trailed off, his fingers tapping the faces of two young boys. They looked roughly the same age, Daphne vaguely recognised one of them from somewhere, but she couldn't quite remember where.

"That's my son and his friend," Evelyn answered uncertainly. Not that Daphne could blame her. It wasn't every day that a stranger made you look at a picture and demand to know who was in it. Daphne just hoped that this was going somewhere. "Eric. He… they were good friends before Hogwarts."

Harry nodded, though it obvious by the sour expression on his face that he was utterly unconvinced. Something about the way that Evelyn had hesitated made Daphne wonder if he wasn't right. Sure, she was a grieving wife, but it still felt… odd. Like she was trying to hide something. But what was worth hiding about a photograph?

"May I use your toilet?" Harry asked suddenly. "Been a rather long day."

"Er… yes, it's down the hall, first door on the left."

Harry gave another curt nod and headed out of the room, leaving Daphne to sit in awkward silence. She forced a smile.

"Sorry about him," Daphne said eventually, desperate to break the suffocating bubble that often enveloped strangers forced together in a room without an exit. "He's a bit of an arse."

"I'm surprised you can put up with it."

"Oh, no, it's not like that. We're just…" she trailed off, not entirely what they were. She'd just been swept up in all of this. She didn't even really know him. The Harry she remembered was a quiet, eleven year old boy. But people changed. Who was to say he would be anything like that anymore? The boy she knew had been flippant, possibly rude, but deep-down she'd seen a kindness in him. The way he was treating this woman now, however, made Daphne wonder if it was really still there.

She was saved from having to define their relationship by Harry's abrupt re-entry into the room. But he wasn't alone. Being pushed in front of him was a man with a haggard expression ruining what may have otherwise been a handsome face. He was tall and lean, with a patchy black and grey beard, and piercing blue eyes that looked warily around the room.

"It appears you have a guest, Mrs Fawley," Harry said by way of announcement. "Is there any particular reason why you chose to hide your friend-or should I say, the man you told us was your son's friend? This is Eric, isn't it?"

"It's okay, Eric, these people are just with the aurors. They only want to ask us some questions."

"Yes, but I rather think that I have all the answers, Mrs Fawley," Harry told her. He gave the taller man a small shove in the small of the back, pushing him towards the armchair that Evelyn was sat in. "All but one. Which of you planned the murder?"

"What?"

"This isn't your son's friend. Well...he may have been. I'm sure that a confused childhood can lead to all sort of relationships. But more importantly, this is your son. Your illegitimate son," Harry said.

Daphne almost gaped.

"Don't lie to me, please. I can tell by the bone structure of his face and the very pronounced widow's peak that you and he share. But the eyes are different. You and your husband both have rather brown ones, yet Eric, here, has rather bright blue. Of course, it is genetically possible, but the fact that you've removed every photograph of your family aside from this one suggests a more personal connection.

"So, save us some time and answer the question. Which of you planned to kill your husband?"

"Don't say anything, he hasn't got any proof," Eric snapped loudly. His face had gone white, drained of any of the colour that speckled his already pale skin. "Get out, the pair of you!"

"Yes, because silence in the face of any accusation isn't already an admission of guilt," Harry said scathingly. "As for proof, your wand will have everything I need. A particular transfiguration attempt, for example. That and the blood on your boots. You may not have noticed in your hurry to stage the scene, but you stepped in some."

The two just stared open-mouthed at Harry, and Daphne wasn't far behind them. The fact that he figured all of that out from nothing, just a loitering man and an old photograph. It was…amazing. There was no other word for it.

"So, you saw your chance before Mr. Fawley changed his will and you took it. I assume your family lawyer warned you in some misguided attempt at loyalty. You hadn't been getting on, probably since he found about your son. What else would cause a pureblood lord to so publicly abandon his wife?"

"We'd hidden it for so long," Evelyn admitted.

"Mum!"

"No, it's okay. I can't go on hiding anymore," Evelyn muttered, tears cascading down her cheeks. Her voice shook with raw emotion, emotion that she'd seemed to have buried for years and tried to keep secret, but that now tumbled out of her without recourse. "It's true, Eric is my son. My husband and I, we'd been fighting for years, I couldn't take it anymore. I went to a muggle village to try and hide. There I met a wonderful, kind, perfect man. Luke. He's the only man I've ever loved. I would've given everything up for him."

"Evidently," Harry commented bitterly.

"No, I would. You may not see it, Mr. Potter, but I would have done anything for him. I did. When he… left, I took in Eric. I told my husband he was the son of a friend of ours that couldn't look after him anymore. Matthew believed me, for a while. Then a few years ago he found out about Luke and put the pieces together."

"So you plotted your revenge."

"No, nothing like that."

"Matthew was ill," Eric filled in. "He was going to write mum out of the will, after everything she'd done for him. He'd been the one that let their marriage die, not her."

"Wait, that was real? I mean, he was really ill?" Daphne asked, unable to stop herself. She was convinced that it had been a fake, poisoning or a curse or something.

"Of course he was," Eric nodded, "I tried to talk to him after, to try and convince him that he was making a mistake and he - he attacked me. That's why I hid when I heard you were aurors."

"Bollocks," Harry interjected. "If you wanted to hide you wouldn't come here, you would go anywhere but here. You thought you'd gotten away with it. Why wouldn't you? You staged the scene perfectly. Hardly what I'd call a defensive accident. So why did you come back here? What could you possibly need?"

There was a brief pause in which Harry's eyes flicked between Evelyn and Eric. The frown faded as realisation took hold of his dour expression. "Of course. You weren't content there, were you? I mean you'd already killed once for money, what was one more? I bet you even convinced her to change her will."

"I didn't need to, the stupid hag had already done it. Ever since he found out about me she's tried to protect. She even me the sole heir."

"Eric!"

His whole demeanour had changed. Instead of blubbering and appearing worried and concerned, the man before Daphne now looked calm, completely and totally at peace. His back had straightened and his eyes had gone hard. A small sneer formed on his face as he looked at his mother.

"Did you really think that his death was an accident? You're thicker than I thought." He scoffed, glowering at her. "I hated him and he loathed me. He always made it obvious, made me feel like an outsider, a freak. After Eustace died I thought maybe… But do you know what he said. 'Why couldn't it have been you?'" He laughed, but it had no humour in it. "He wished it had been me, rather than his precious son."

"So you devised a way to kill him, one that could be easily disguised and leave no trace back to you. You knew your mother would inherit, and you'd get the money eventually, payment for your childhood."

"It almost worked, but that damned house elf found him. A few more hours and he'd have died then and there. No-one needed to know. He deserved it."

"Yes, I'm sure that's what you have to tell yourself."

"It's the truth,"

"No-one deserves to die for giving you a home," Daphne said, speaking for the first time since all of this had started. Everyone turned to look at her, Harry arched an eyebrow. "He may not have been a very good father, but that's no reason to kill him. He was a good man."

"You didn't know him."

"No, I knew him better than you did. Anyone who met him knew him better than you. He had a good heart, it had just been broken. All you did was let your hate stop you from seeing anything else about him than what you wanted to see."

"And if that was all this really was, then you wouldn't be here," Harry added. "Your father may have never loved you, but your mother did."

From the hall there was loud sound of knocking and shouts.

"Right on time," Harry said, turning to look out the window.

Almost everybody else in the room followed suit, Evelyn's eyes were drawn to the sudden noise, but Eric had moved towards his mother. Daphne watched, almost as if in slow motion as he reached into the folds of her robes and pulled out her wand without the woman even registering.

The words that Daphne's father had drilled it into her sounded suddenly in her head: react on instinct.

The small room was filled with a cacophony of noise as a white, blinding light erupted from the end of Daphne's wand and slammed into the man, flinging him back and causing him to hurtle over the leather armchair and collapse like a puppet with its strings cut.

Just as his head slammed into the soft thick carpet, Daphne heard the sound of several running footsteps. Hopkins, Hannah Abbott and a bunch of other aurors appeared in the doorway with their wands drawn.

"I knew I could always rely on you lot for a nick of time rescue," Harry said dryly before heading over to Eric's collapsed body. He crouched down, removing his wand from the inside of his jacket and poking the back of the unconscious head. Once he was sure that Eric wasn't going anywhere, he drew a large shape in mid-air. There was a flash of silver, and a thin rope was summoned, knotting itself around Eric's wrists.

"It was the son," Harry told Hopkins. "Wand, boots, should be all the proof you need."

It took almost an hour to get out of the house, but that was pretty much that. After several interviews with Hopkins and his other aurors, the house was searched and a few bits and pieces were collected, but there was no real proof.

Daphne felt like she was in a daze. Time blurred by as she had the same conversation over and over again. Evelyn Fawley stayed rather quiet, only speaking when she was spoken to. Harry kept quiet about her involvement, sticking to the story that it had all been Eric's plot. Daphne had no idea why, but she said nothing. He wasn't stupid, there was going to be a reason. Besides, if she changed her story the aurors would be even more wary of her than they already were.

It was only when Harry and Daphne were about to leave that Evelyn spoke up. They were stood on her drive, parades of aurors in front of them, some disappearing, others walking and talking. All of them heading back to their jobs. They should have been the ones to solve this case, but all they had done was mop up and take the killer away.

And yet, they'd get all the credit.

"Why didn't you say anything, Mr. Potter?" Evelyn asked, her voice shaking and quiet.

"He would have murdered Matthew Fawley with or without your help," Harry shrugged. "He manipulated you, your love for him, and the wall you'd built up between yourself and husband. He was going to kill you. I think that's punishment enough, don't you?"

With that he turned away and began walking down the driveway. Daphne gave her a quick, forced smile and hurried to catch up with him.

"You're just going to let her get away with it?"

"What is there to let her get away with? She didn't really do anything apart from not report it. Would you like to wager they would have done anything? Would they have even believed it?"

Daphne sighed. She could see where he was coming from. It seemed so real to her, but she doubted if she would have believed it if someone had just told her that it had happened. They walked in silence back down the drive, Daphne still struggling to process what had just happened. At the beginning of the day she'd just been going to work, but that was before the corpse, before her whole world had been turned upside down.

"Farewell, then," Harry said when they got to the quiet street. The aurors had vanished. It was only them. The sun had moved behind some clouds that had built up in what had been the bright blue sky. Since they had been inside, it had grown busy with white wisps, floating along and obscuring the brightness of the day.

Harry stuck his hand out, his back ramrod straight, his grip warm and firm. If this was goodbye, then at least this time she was able to acknowledge it.

Once they'd both dropped their hands, Daphne turned to walk away, not sure what else to say.

"I – I wanted to say that I appreciated your help today," Harry said suddenly. "I would've been perfectly capable to do it myself, of course, but your insights were… valuable. You should have faith in your instincts, you were right about Fawley. I think you may have some potential as an investigator yourself."

"I'm a healer," Daphne said.

"Isn't the point of that to help people?" Harry asked, "I'd say you did that today, wouldn't you?" The ghost of a smile almost pulled at his lips, but then a sour expression returned. "Food for thought."

As soon as he finished speaking, he turned on the spot and vanished, leaving her alone on the road with only her confused thoughts for company.


	3. Returning to Normality

Chapter Three: Returning to Normality

The days that followed Daphne's dabble in detective work were alarmingly dull in comparison. Being a junior healer, she had always found her work to be somewhat tedious. But after her step into the world of mystery and intrigue, it seemed to grow even worse. It didn't help that her patients at St. Mungo's weren't the most pleasant lot, either. All they ever seemed to do was complain—about their curses not healing quickly enough, about not wanting to be stuck in the ward, about any number of things that made seeing a smiling patient such a breath of fresh air. And unfortunately, those were few and far between.

 _Magical Bugs and Diseases_ wasn't what she would call a joyful place.

But Daphne had never done her work for recognition, she'd become a healer to help people. As she was quick to realise, though, the reality of it hadn't exactly been what she'd dreamt of. It had been more late nights and snobbery. It had been all of her superiors looking down on her as if she didn't know anything, And now, even after the aurors had come calling to find out if her hypothesis about Matthew Fawley's 'illness' could be true, all she had earned was a stern word from her boss about undermining their authority. Never mind the fact that it had helped catch a killer.

Thoughts like these ran through her mind continuously over the next few days. And it was a similar internal monologue that gripped her as she waited for her best friend, Tracey Davis, in the _Leaky Cauldron._

The only reason that Daphne had arrived first was because her shift had ended blissfully early. It had only been about ten minutes, but after almost twelve hours straight on her feet, she would take any small mercies that she could get.

The pubwas quiet as she waited. The Hogwarts foot-traffic hadn't kicked in yet as there were still a few weeks of summer left until the book list got released. July was apparently a quiet time, as Tom had explained to Daphne when she had ordered her drink. Little wonder considering the sun was shining brightly and there was no outdoor seating.

"Hey," Tracey said brightly, arriving a few minutes later.

Her face was slightly flushed, probably from being in a hurry. Her job at her father's international moving business caused her to constantly be in a rush—organizing things that needed to be shipped, filling out paperwork for international portkeys, trying to get clients half-way around the globe to talk to each other. The days were always busy, but she enjoyed her evenings. Her and her fiancée were currently looking at houses.

"Hi," Daphne smiled, moving the teapot that had taken up the middle of the table out Tracey's way. "Busy?"

"Yeah, long day. Trying to organise a shipment of Hungarian Horntail eggs is harder than you'd think."

"Do I want to know why?"

"I think they're trying to set up a breeding colony to observe how they interact with their own species, alone," Tracey said, slipping out of her work robe and laying it over the back of her chair before sitting down. "It's some kind of experiment. Dragons have been interbreeding for years at different reserves so this guy is trying to find out if that's changed their behavioural patterns."

"I'm going to settle with no," Daphne decided, laughing slightly. Though, that was tame by Tracey's standards. There was one shipment that involved Bulgarian cheese, a unicycle and a live Hippogriff. Definitely hard to top, that one. "Mind, sounds better than my day."

"Work still getting you down?" Tracey asked sympathetically, her face scrunching a little in concern.

"Better believe it," Daphne moaned. It wasn't a recent phenomenon, she'd been complaining to Tracey for weeks. But after the last few days, things had only gotten worse. And she hadn't even told Tracey about her little misadventures with Harry Potter, yet. "They just don't listen to me. What's the point of training someone up only to make them take blood samples and brew potions? That's not exactly difficult."

"You've just got to wait it out," Tracey said in an almost rehearsed tone. "It's like we've been saying, they'll promote you eventually, and then you'll be able to do the stuff that really matters. Make a difference."

"It's not just that," Daphne sighed, "not anymore. Last week something happened, something weird."

"What do you mean?"

"I was checking up on Matthew Fawley -"

"The dead guy?" Tracey asked almost a little too excitedly, "the one whose illegitimate son murdered him to try and get his hands on the family fortune?"

"How do you – oh yeah, it was in all of the papers, wasn't it?"

"Not just that, but Fawley's got stocks everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I _mean_ everywhere, Daph. Germany, Australia, America, you name it."

"I didn't think he was that rich?"

"Are you kidding? He was loaded. It's just all wrapped up in loads of different things. But now they've gone to someone else. We're not sure who yet, they've not announced it, but we're having to make sure all the international firms are still interested in our shipping contracts. It's a nightmare. Three times I had to go to Tokyo last week! He had a majority share in Quality Quidditch, and they've just signed a big deal to supply the brooms for the Super League over there."

"Since when was there a Japanese league?"

"You really don't pay enough attention," Tracey muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Why would I? It's a stupid sport!" Daphne snapped back. She knew her friend was just trying to annoy, but she couldn't help but take the bait. "Anyway, that's not the point. What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm the one who found his body."

"No! Daph, that's… are you serious?"

"Yeah," Daphne nodded, painfully aware of the look of dread on her friend's face. After all, she'd felt the same when she'd seen the body, herself. But the more Daphne looked back on it, the more she realised that, in a strange kind of way, she'd enjoyed it. Not the murder, of course. She still felt sick when she remembered the dead man on the floor. But everything else. She'd felt like she'd actually helped make a real difference for once.

"Oh my God, are you okay? Why didn't you say anything sooner? I had no idea."

"I'm fine, I didn't want to worry you," Daphne said. It wasn't a total lie. "And it wasn't just that, it was weird. I don't really know how, but somehow I ended up helping with the investigation."

"You mean with a witness statement, right? Like you saw something and that helped them catch the killer?" The worry in Tracey's voice was becoming clearer and clearer with each passing second.

"Kind of," Daphne said with a bit of hesitation. "Well, no, not really. I mean, that's how it started. You see, we'd been looking after him beforehand, that's why I was there. But I told them how his illness seemed a bit suspicious from the start, and then it kind of… escalated."

"What do you mean 'escalated'?"

"Well, do you remember Harry Potter?"

Tracey scoffed, "Do I? That boy was weird. Not to mention a complete git."

"Well, he consults for the aurors. Some kind of private investigator but different. It's hard to explain."

"See, weird." Tracey said, shaking her head. "Can't just get a normal job like everyone else."

"You never did like him, did you?" Daphne asked, though she knew why. Tracey hadn't taken to Harry from the very first time they'd met.

"Did you? He was odd, Daph, c'mon. He would just look at you and tell you everything you'd ever done. It was creepy."

"Yeah, well, good thing he can do that, otherwise Matthew Fawley's killer might've gotten away with it," Daphne bit back bitterly. She wasn't quite sure why, but she didn't like the way that Tracey was talking about Harry. She didn't even know him. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. Harry figured out that it had something to do with his will and needed to go and talk to his wife. I knew where she lived, but I couldn't remember the address, so I took him there."

"You did what?" Tracey demanded loudly, several other patrons looked around. Tracey shot them a quick smile and continued, quieter this time but still as angry. "What were you thinking? Anything could've happened!"

"Something did," Daphne admitted. "Eric, the son, he was there. Harry managed to piece it all together from a photograph, don't ask me how. He confronted him, and when the aurors got there, Eric tried to escape. I'm the one that stunned him."

Technically it hadn't been a stunner. Daphne's father had taught her all sorts of nasty spells designed to take down people with a little more force. But somehow, Daphne thought it was better not to mention that particular detail.

"Tell me you're joking," Tracey said imploringly. When Daphne didn't say anything, she added with, if possible, even more concern, "Right? Do you know how mad that sounds? You followed a guy you barely know to some woman's house and could've gotten yourself killed."

"But I didn't."

"But you could have," Tracey insisted, "Merlin, you're a healer, not a bloody auror. What possessed you to even do that?"

"He needed my help," Daphne protested a little hotly. She didn't appreciate being interrogated like this.

"And once you got there, you could've just left him to deal with it. You didn't have to bloody follow him for Merlin's sake!"

More people were looking now, idly curious about the hushed tiff that they could see growing into a full-blown argument. People loved free theatre.

"I couldn't help it. I needed to know what happened, I couldn't just walk away," Daphne said irritably. "Why are you being like this, anyway?"

"Like what?"

"Treating me like I'm a child!"

It was something Daphne had always loathed. Some of her family had done the same when she'd announced that she was going to be a healer. They'd looked down their noses and scoffed. Why would a woman of her stature bother? She had the money, the right name, she needn't work for the rest of her life. Yet Daphne had chosen her path. Only, it was beginning to feel like it wasn't the right one to be on. But what else was there?

"I'm just… I'm just worried, that's all. Think about it from my perspective. You complain to me for weeks about your job, and then suddenly you're off doing God only knows what with a total stranger."

"He's not a stranger, we've known him since we were kids,"

"No, we didn't. No-one did. He'd swan about having adventures but nobody knew him. We'd all just watch. I mean, even Sirius Black avoids him, and Potter's the one who saved him from the Dementors."

"You don't know that."

"It was in every magazine," Tracey said.

"Like they're reliable," Daphne pointed out, but she couldn't help but agree with Tracey. She remembered when it had turned out that Black was innocent, that he hadn't been the one to kill the Potters' all those years ago. Yet, he'd been absent in Harry's life. They'd seen him out and about his public as a free man, and never once had Harry been in tow. He'd been the one to take him to Fudge with the memories all ready to view and veritaserum in hand. From then on, they'd never been seen together. Even during the war when Black had led the resistance fighters, he'd never been by Harry's side. It would have been impossible to say they were practically family, more like complete strangers.

"You know what I mean, though. He's just some weird bloke and you followed him. I don't know, Daph, it's just a bit…"

"Unexpected?" Daphne filled in hopefully.

"I was going to say mental, but sure."

"I know what I'm doing, Trace." Daphne said testily.

"Do you?" Tracey asked, the worried anger returning. She always had had a short temper. But usually it wasn't directed Daphne's way. "Cause from where I'm sitting, you haven't a clue. What are you saying? That you want to go work for him, is that it?"

"No."

"Then what is this?"

"I don't know. I just know it's harder now, going back there every day. At least when I was with Harry, it felt like I was actually doing something, making a difference."

"You make a difference where you are," Tracey tried.

"No, I don't. We both know that. We can sit around and wish that it's going to get better, but it won't for years. And what am I meant to do, just work my arse off and hope that they notice?"

"Better than risking your neck,"

"I said I don't want to do that, I'm pretty sure that was me saying that."

"You're funny," Tracey said though her voice was flat and her face empty of much emotion besides annoyance. Her jaw was tight and her eyes had narrowed.

"I wasn't trying to be," Daphne retorted. She sighed. She didn't want this. She'd been scared to tell Tracey because she knew, deep down, that she would do something like this. She was protective, loyal and short-tempered. She'd ended up in Slytherin somehow, and it was years later that Daphne found out it was only because she'd asked the hat to be put with her best friend. That was one of the few good things that had come out of Daphne's decision to go to Slytherin in the end, being with her best friend.

"Look, I know you're worried, okay? I get that. And I'm not saying that I want to just pack it all in and go off solving crimes or anything. I probably won't even see him again. I just want… more. There has to be more than this."

"And there will be," Tracey promised. Daphne felt her hand wrap around her own. "I'm sorry for shouting, it's just that I don't want you to do anything stupid."

"I know." Daphne said, instantly feeling guilty for reacting like she had done. Tracey was only trying to help, even if she could easily lose her temper.

"Listen, how about I get the next lot in, and I tell you about the time dad tried to sell a Swiss guy a boat even though they're nowhere near the sea."

Daphne smiled, rolling her eyes but nodding anyway. She loved Tracey's stories about her father and sometimes wondered how he'd even managed to run the business before she got there.

They stayed there for far longer than Daphne had intended, thanks to a combination of funny stories and alcohol which Daphne knew she would regret later. But she didn't let herself go enough.

After an accidental trip to Cheadle, thanks to some sloppy apparition, Daphne found herself struggling to open her door, only to remember that she needed to use her wand. There was a tap, a strangled yell of surprise and the dull realisation of pain through a blurred layer of booze as Daphne fell through the door.

She giggled.

Silence greeted her as she lay there. It was dark too. She'd expected there to be light. She frowned into the carpet, rough tendrils brushing against her face. It felt itchy. But comfortable. She didn't remember buying comfortable carpet.

After a long moment of careful carpet consideration, Daphne clawed her way to her feet. She probably looked like something out of the Black Lake, but there was nobody around to see so she didn't care. There was no-one home. She could've sworn there should be. Alex hadn't mentioned that he'd need to work late. Though, she had been getting her days confused lately. Work constantly fried her brain thanks to long hours, he was always telling her that. Maybe she'd just forgot. That's what it was.

It took far longer than it should have done, but eventually Daphne was able to clamber into her nice, large bed. She had hoped it would be warm but the sheets were cold, not that she really noticed. Her robes still did the job. She probably should've taken them off, but her limbs didn't feel like moving so Daphne just stayed where she was, spread-eagled on a bed too big for her. It was only as the darkness pressed around her and a slight alcohol-induced ringing persisted in her ears, that Daphne let her mind wander back to her conversation with Tracey.

She hadn't been lying. She probably never was going to see Harry again. It had been amazing, exciting, everything her father had made her dream about as a child with stories of his own life as an auror. But maybe it was time to grow up, live in the real world. It had been wonderful to glimpse into a world she could never live in. Perhaps that was all it was meant to be, a glimpse.

So why did she want more?


	4. Bring Your Detective to Work Day

Chapter Four: Bring Your Detective to Work Day

"Healer Greengrass?"

Daphne glanced up, her sandwich halfway to her mouth and surprise wrinkling her forehead. It had been a few days since her drunken escapade with Tracey and the inevitable attempt to hide her hangover. It had not been pretty and had lasted longer than she cared to admit. She had only just managed to get back into her daily routine.

The woman in the door was Gail, the receptionist. She was a rather plump woman with a constantly dour expression that reminded Daphne of a cat that never got enough love from its owners. Everyone referred to her quite simply as 'Smiler'-the nickname being accompanied by the persistent rumour was that she hadn't done so since 1945 when the war had ended. She'd been around forever and nobody was even sure how old she was, nor whether she should still be employed. There was no-one left to ask, really.

"Yes?" Daphne asked, sighing as she set down her food. The first break she'd had in six hours, and she couldn't even enjoy that.

And people said healers complained about nothing.

"There's someone downstairs asking for you," Gail said in a monotone voice. "He says it's urgent."

"Did he give you his name?"

"No," was all Gail answered before heading back out of the break room and looking for another healer's day to brighten.

Daphne rolled her eyes and set about wrapping up her food. Maybe there'd be time later, she told herself, despite knowing that something would always get in the way.

She didn't rush down the many winding and cramped corridors. Partly because she wasn't in the mood, but also because the many floating delivery boxes that were marching towards the store room made it impossible to hurry anywhere. Delivery day was always fun.

By the time Daphne finally made it to the reception area, she was sure that any normal person who wanted her would have just given up and left. But the man that greeted her wasn't exactly what many people would call 'normal'.

He was sat on one of the chairs, a brown file in his hand and photographs scattered around him on the seat to his right. His lips were pursed and his eyes narrowed as he quickly glanced between the two. People who had been waiting for a while – Daphne could tell, they had snacks – were glancing at him in mild bemusement.

The thing about magical diseases, illnesses or injuries was that they were damn near impossible to hide. And, here he was. Perfectly fine and in no apparent rush. Not mention one of the biggest celebrities in the country.

"Harry? You asked for me?" Daphne said uncertainly.

He couldn't be the one that had asked for her, surely? But there was nobody else there that had reacted when she'd appeared. All the people queueing at the front desk hadn't even noticed she was there.

He looked up at the sound of her voice, pushing the glasses back from the edge of his nose and snapping shut the brown folder. There was no smile in greeting. But then, Harry wasn't the type of person that smiled. His version of happiness, so far as Daphne could tell, was just looking less sour than usual. She idly wondered if he'd met Gail.

"Yes," Harry nodded. "I was informed you were on your break?"

"Yeah, but I haven't got long," Daphne told him, moving past the crowd of sick and injured that were congregated at the front desk. "Gail told me you said it was urgent. Are you okay?"

"I'm perfectly alright," Harry answered, "though your concern is noted."

 _Most people would go with appreciated_ , Daphne thought.

"I was wondering if I would be able to get your opinion?"

"On?"

"These," Harry said.

He slipped out a large black and white picture from the inside of the brown file that he was carrying, and then quickly bent down and collected a couple of the other, smaller coloured pictures from the chair besides him. "Given your rather astute instincts on Matthew Fawley's murder, I thought you may be of some use."

Daphne frowned but took the pictures and began to look at them. She knew what was coming but that didn't make the sight much easier. Lifeless, cold-grey eyes looked up at her from the black and white image. They belonged in the face of a man. He looked like he'd never been shy of a meal or two. The skin on his cheeks was blotchy and his nose appeared to be a similar dark shade, though it was difficult to tell in monochrome colours. His hair was thinned and had receded all at once, making him look much older than he probably was.

"What am I looking for?" Daphne asked, switching to the coloured pictures. They were smaller and had a white frame around them and appeared to have been taken by a muggle camera. Though the body moved in neither image, the light from the candles didn't flicker in these. Instead, they pooled around the body and threw the man in full technicolour relief. His face was flushed red in patches as Daphne had suspected, but there was also a blueish tinge clinging to the rim of his nose.

The smaller pictures varied in location. One directly on the steel eyes, another closely zoomed in on the skin around the nose and fingers. Harry had apparently seen the blueish tinge just as Daphne had. The fingers on both hands were curled up into balls, the nails clearly digging into the skin.

"Meet Aaron Richards, fifty two, found dead in his home this morning by his daughter Selina Richards," Harry said, with only the tiniest amount of theatrics. "The aurors picked up the case because of his status as a half-blood and his job as a potioneer for Sleekeazy. It's been ruled as a heart attack. There were no signs of forced entry and, as you can see, his diet verged on the abysmal. Magic can make anyone lazy. It's little wonder that cardiovascular diseases are fifteen percent more common in magical communities than muggle ones."

"I'm assuming you don't agree," Daphne said, ignoring his justified annoyance. She'd seen it herself. Wizards and witches who could magically go anywhere and make any food were not inclined to exercise or eat properly. "With the diagnosis, not the thing about heart attacks."

"I do not," Harry confirmed, "but I am finding it exceptionally difficult to convince Hopkins to order a full autopsy. Apparently I am trying to find a crime where there isn't one. Nonsense."

"He could be right," Daphne said, flicking back to the headshot that he'd first given her. "All the signs are consistent with a heart attack-flushed skin and the blueish edges here." She pointed to the patches around the nose. "Not to mention the…" Daphne trailed off, frowning as she noticed something at the edge of his neck. Was that? No. It couldn't be. They were incredibly rare, never mind illegal.

"Is that what I think it is?" Daphne asked. She glanced around looking for something to set the photos down on. Across from her was a small table stacked with out-of-date magazines and celebrities that had fallen into obscurity. She hurried over, Harry in toe, and began to lay out the various photos, discarding the ones that focused on anything but the lower half of the dead man's face.

"Here," Daphne said, pointing to the neck just above the point where a shirt collar would have obscured the skin. "You see the scratch?"

It looked like a rather long but accidental shaving cut. Except it wasn't. And she was willing to bet that was only what it was supposed to look like.

"It's deeper at one end, slightly rounder, and there's a bit of raised skin too," Daphne told Harry, "almost like there's something else there. The scratch came second to hide the first wound. Make it look like an accident or something."

"Could be a needle," Harry tried but very little conviction, like he knew it wasn't the truth.

"Could be," Daphne agreed, "except it's not. If this were a heart attack, then the hands wouldn't be at his side. One would be clutching his chest. It's a natural reflex, the dominant hand goes to the chest. Except both of his are clenched at his side in exactly the same position. I can't be certain, but if I had to guess, I'd say that he was put under the body-bind curse, and then this," she pointed at the cut on his neck, "was done to hide a wound from a stinger."

"From what animal?"

"An African Do'kampa," Daphne said, "I won't tell you its full name, but it's kind of like a magical scorpion. The stinger punctures the skin and causes rapid inflammation of the blood cells so that they can't get through the arteries. That results in what looks like a heart attack. It sort of is, except it also happens to be the way that the Do'kampa lays its eggs." She grimaced. "We had to learn about all kinds of magical creatures and what their attacks look like during healer training and that was one of the most disgusting. Guess it's why I remembered it."

Harry nodded, a strange look that Daphne had never seen before crossing his face. He almost seemed to be impressed.

"And you don't seem even a little surprised."

"I had my suspicions," Harry shrugged, "the circumstantial evidence all pointed towards murder, finding the weapon has just helped me to narrow down the suspect pool rather dramatically."

He pulled out a small piece of parchment from his pocket, along with what Daphne knew was some kind of muggle pen. He scrawled something, pocketed the pen, and then drew his wand. With a quick flick, the piece of parchment flew off, heading across the atrium and back behind the reception.

"Where are you sending that?"

"The morgue," Harry answered, "after it was ruled natural causes, the body was sent here. Your mortician wanted the body to be used for dissection."

"The trainees would've been in for a bit of a shock," Daphne muttered, her lip curling a little at the thought. By the time the body would have been put before them, the eggs would've hatched, or at least got to the point where they would be close to it. She dreaded to think how they would have coped with that.

"My thoughts precisely," he glanced down at his watch. "I think your break is over, Daphne."

"What?" Daphne frowned, looking at the huge clock that hung high above them in the middle of the reception. She groaned. How had it gone that quickly? "Is there anything else you need?"

"No," Harry said, "I would've solved it myself eventually, of course." Daphne rolled her eyes. "But you helped the process." He paused, his lips pursed for a moment as if he wasn't sure whether he should carry on talking but then he added. "We make a good team, you and I."

"Yeah, well, if there's anything I can help you with again, you know where to find me."

"I may well take you up on that offer," Harry said, "I often find myself in need of expert advice."

"I'm not an expert."

"No, but you're of above average intelligence for a healer."

"You say the nicest things," Daphne commented dryly.

"Do not be affronted. In my time I have found that healers often conduct themselves with a degree of self-importance and yet their intelligence comes from the ability to memorise. You do not act as such. It is rather refreshing to find someone different."

"Glad I can be refreshing," Daphne smiled, "and now, I've really got to go."

"Until next time," Harry said.

"Yeah, see you."

Daphne frowned as she walked away. She didn't know what she had been expecting when she had seen him down there, but that hadn't been it. Whatever that had been, anyway. A consultation? Or was it more? Did he just want her professional help, or was this how he tried to make friends? Did he even have friends? From what she'd seen, there was a clear answer to that. No. So what was this?

That question, and questions like it, bugged Daphne for the next few days. Tracey wasn't much help, and Daphne didn't tell Alex about it. She barely ever saw him these days, anyway, he was so busy with work. Her confusion was not helped by the fact that Harry took her up on her offer. It began the following week. He appeared with a case and some questions, they would talk and then he'd vanish again.

It happened again and again. Sometimes Daphne could help, other times she couldn't. Some of the things that he would bring her would be so weird, so strange that she would have no idea what to do or even suggest, and he would just sit there like it was perfectly normal. Not only that, but he'd come up with these amazing solutions, and Daphne couldn't even begin to imagine how he figured them out until he told her. Somehow, they always seemed so obvious once they were explained.

A few weeks after their original meeting, Daphne found herself waiting in the reception of St. Mungo's, her boyfriend Alex about to pick her up. They were going for a meal. It had been so long since they'd gone out, and Daphne was idly wondering when the last time had been, when a familiar figure appeared through the huge glass front that led onto the muggle street. Unlike every other time she had seen him, Harry wasn't clutching a file or some photos, now.

"I hoped that I would catch you," Harry said by way of greeting, skipping past pleasantries. "I have a request, if you would care to listen?"

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," Daphne replied, "but, sure, if you're quick."

"It won't take long. At least, today. I have recently been perusing old cases, Hopkins hasn't provided me with anything of any worth lately, so I thought that I would delve into some of the more elusive puzzles that I have come across in my time as investigator. None of them were of any interest, but I did come across a closed case which I think is worth my time."

"Do you realise what you're saying sometimes?" Daphne asked, knowing the answer.

He shot her an impatient look and continued, "If I am right, and I think I am, I may have stumbled upon a thirty-year-old miscarriage of justice. Joseph Wedgewood was found guilty for the murder of his wife. There was a lot circumstantial evidence along with a somewhat unbelievable confession. I believe that, given time with him, I can begin to understand why he confessed and where the evidence might be to suggest that he is, in fact, innocent.

"The only issue is that I cannot interview him alone. He has resided in Azkaban ever since his arrest and, as I'm sure you can imagine, it has not done anything good for his mental state. If I were an auror, then I would have no issue. But as a consultant, I am denied those privileges. So to see him, I need to be accompanied by a medical professional who can monitor his well-being."

"And you want that to be me?"

"Simply put, yes, I do."

"Why?"

"I trust your judgement," Harry answered, "and, as I have said before, I think you could prove to have some talent in this line of work. I would rather be assisted by someone who understands, rather than by someone who would be a hindrance. You can, of course, say no."

"I didn't say that," Daphne said, a little too quickly. The truth was that she did want to go. It sounded intriguing, and if Harry was right then they'd be helping turn a man's life around. Even if it was a little too late. She'd seen what Azkaban could do to people. Her father had hated doing shifts there back before he'd retired. Every time he came home he always seemed empty, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

"Just, can I get back to you?" Daphne asked. She didn't know why she felt so cautious, but despite wanting to plunge into this head first, she couldn't help but wonder if she was doing the right thing. There hadn't exactly been much of an emphasis on mental health in her training. There had been a decent amount, but she was hardly an expert, despite what Harry thought. There were hundreds of people more qualified, yet here Harry was, asking her. The old questions of why flooded back into Daphne's mind, but she said nothing. Maybe later, if she did do this and it was all over, she would ask.

Harry nodded and Daphne was spared further talk of Joseph Wedgewood's unfortunate life by the arrival of another man, slightly taller than Harry and with a charming smile that Daphne had grown to love. He was broad, well dressed and carrying a bouquet of flowers. Daphne grinned. It had been almost two days since she'd last seen her boyfriend, both of their jobs kept them rather busy. But that was the life they'd chosen to lead.

"Hey," Alex smiled as he approached them both. His smile faltered a little as he looked at Harry, his eyes darting to the scar and then back to the stoic face. Harry, for his part, said nothing. Instead Daphne watched as his eyes took in everything about the man before him. He glanced at her for a moment, then back to Alex.

"Sorry, Alex, this is Harry. He works with the aurors. He was just asking me about something," Daphne said quickly, in a bid to defuse the strange kind of tension that had settled around them. "Harry, this is Alex, my boyfriend."

Harry managed something that looked halfway to a very forced smile, but ignored the hand that Alex offered. Instead, he just sent Daphne a strange look that she couldn't quite understand, and then said, "think about my offer." With that, he left, leaving Alex and Daphne to stare after him.

"What in Merlin's name was that about?" Alex asked, dumbfounded.

"No idea, he can be…"

"An arse?"

"Yeah," Daphne agreed, aware that that was the exact phrase she'd used to describe Harry to Evelyn Fawley weeks ago. It still confused her that that had happened. It didn't feel real, somehow. "Right, sorry, shall we go?"

"Yeah, but seriously, what was all that about?" Alex persisted.

"What do you mean? I told you, he just wanted my opinion on something."

"What thing?"

"A medical thing," Daphne answered hotly, "what's it matter?"

"And why'd he want to know?"

"There was a murder, okay? Look, I don't want to talk about this, just drop it."

"Alright, fine, whatever. Don't tell me." Alex snapped sullenly.

Daphne glowered. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

"Like a dick," Daphne bit back. The first time she'd seen him in days, and he was acting like this. She could feel her anger begin to bubble under the surface and she knew exactly why. He could get like this sometimes, jealous. And she hated it. Not only because it felt awful, but also because lingering at the back of her mind was the sense that he didn't trust her. It was insulting more than anything else.

"What?" Alex asked thickly.

Daphne almost sighed. He didn't realise what he'd done. She wanted to carry on arguing, but she could feel a headache begin to pulsate at the front of her mind. Tiredness was setting in and the last thing she wanted was a fight. For once, all Daphne wanted was a nice meal with the man she loved rather than a fight over nothing. She understood being insecure, but sometimes it was hard to keep on smiling. Especially when he acted like a child.

"Look, let's just go. I've not seen you in ages, can't we just have a nice time?"

Alex almost looked like he wanted to say something. For a brief moment, his jaw clenched and his eyes closed, but then they opened again and he was looking at her much more softly. "I'm sorry, you're right."

"It's okay," Daphne said, even though it was beginning to get to the stage where it wasn't. "C'mon, we'd better go before we lose the table."

He nodded and together they began to head out of the hospital and towards the magical entrance that took them to the street. They didn't say anything for a while. Daphne's mind wandered not to the upcoming meal or the argument that they'd just teetered on having, but on the problem of Joseph Wedgewood and whether or not she and Harry would be able to help him. If he even needed helping at all.

* * *

 **AN: So this is the last of my pre-written chapters, so I may not be able to update every two weeks like I have been doing as I'm currently at the end of my third year and still have a dissertation and exams to do. But I'll try and get the next one done within two weeks. Also to everyone who has commented about the relationship, I'm sorry to disappoint but that's how it's going to between Daphne and Harry. However, that doesn't mean to say that there won't be any in the background with others, but they won't be the focus of this story. It's more about their friendship, the cases and what being a part of his life does to Daphne and the people around her.**

 **I hope you guys like this new chapter, as usual any questions feel free to message me or leave a review and I'll get back to you!**


	5. A Black Day

Chapter Five: A Black Day

Tracey almost didn't knock.

Her fist hung in the air for a long moment. She wasn't exactly sure just how long, but she knew she'd been there a while, trapped in a bubble of indecisiveness. It wasn't her place, but at the same time, who the bloody hell would bother? It wasn't like anyone else knew. Daphne had made Tracey promise not to say anything, and Alex wasn't exactly going to find out more. Astoria wouldn't know-the two Greengrass sisters hadn't been on good terms in a while. So if it wasn't going to be Tracey, who would it be?

It had been that particular realisation that had finally sent Tracey's clenched fist into the hard, black wood of the front door.

Her heart hammered as she waited. What if he wasn't in? He could be out? That would be like him. Or maybe he was asleep. She checked her watch. No. Who slept until four in the afternoon apart from teenagers and people who worked nights? Time seemed to drag by, every second passing like a minute with Tracey's anxiety rising with each one. Maybe she should just leave?

Doubts clawed at her resolve. She was just about to turn away when she heard the latch move, and then the door was opening.

"Four o'clock in the afternoon," the man said as he looked at her from across the threshold. "And already a beautiful girl at my door, I knew today would be a good day."

"Mr Black?" Tracey asked, almost unsure. He looked different from the pictures. But then, he wasn't dressed in fancy robes and his hair wasn't perfect. Instead, he was wearing loose pyjama bottoms and a long dressing gown that he let hang open. His hair was messy, but his goatee was perfectly trimmed and given a few minutes, Tracey didn't doubt that he would soon look like _Witch Weekly's_ Most Eligible Bachelor once again.

"That's me," Sirius Black nodded, a charming smile on his lips and a twinkle in his dark eyes. "And who might you be?"

"My name's Tracey Davis," Tracey told him. "I'm here about your godson."

Sirius sighed. The smile dropped from his face and his shoulders slumped. "I'm not talking about my godson. I thought I'd already made that clear to you people? Now, if that's all, I'd like to get on with my day, thank you."

"No, I'm not with the press," Tracey said quickly, slamming a hand against the door that was being shut in her face. She'd come this far, she wasn't about to be turned away.

"Then what do you want?"

"I'm worried about a friend of mine. She's started talking to him, a lot. I don't why or what they're doing, it's just...he dragged her into some kind of weird murder case, and she could've been hurt. She won't listen to me, but she doesn't know anything about him, and I was wondering -"

"If I could fill in the blanks?" Sirius asked.

Tracey nodded.

A painful moment of decision crossed Sirius' lined face. He looked older than the photos, but Tracey could still see why he never struggled to get a woman on each arm.

"You'd better come in."

She followed him into the house, shutting the door behind her. The house was beautiful, classy and modern. Sirius was one of the few purebloods that owned a lot of muggle property. It was nice and airy, plenty of light flooding in through the huge windows. A vast open plan living room/dining room greeted Tracey. There were plenty of sofas, chairs and a large bookshelf next to a glass fronted fireplace. Tracey had seen her fair share of impressive homes, both muggle and wizarding and some in between. This was definitely one of the best.

Sirius gestured to one of the sofas and Tracey set herself down, taking off her jacket as she did so and laying it gently across the back of the cool, black leather. It was nice on her skin. Had she been outside much longer she'd have cast a cooling charm on herself. The summer was starting to kick in with full force.

"So," Sirius said as he took a seat on the black, fabric armchair next to her. Sometime between the door and the chair, he'd fastened his dressing gown. "What do you want to know?"

"Specifically? If my friend is safe."

"That depends on her," Sirius said, "Harry's had plenty of consultants before, he usually just asks them questions and leaves. I wouldn't worry."

"Then why did you let me in?"

"Because none of their friends have ever come to my door," Sirius shrugged. "So either you're just scared or this is different. And seeing as I know who your father is, and I can guess that your friend is Daphne Greengrass, I'd say it's something different."

Tracey stared, how had he known?

"I still know a few aurors. I might not be one myself anymore, but I do have friends. They try keep me informed about what Harry's doing."

"Then you know what happened?"

"I know that she found a body and helped arrest a murderer," Sirius said, "other than that, I think you may be a little better informed than I am. They were as surprised to find her there as you were to hear about it." Sirius paused, looking at her intently, the happy-go lucky charm that had greeted Tracey having long since vanished. "I'm sorry I can't be more helpful."

"But you know him," Tracey insisted, though she knew it was a long shot. She'd read all about the little feud that had sprung up between Harry Potter and his godfather. Though, as Daphne had pointed out, that could just be a press fantasy.

"No, I don't. I haven't spoken to Harry for three years," Sirius said, his eyes sad. "You think because I'm his godfather, we're family. We aren't. But I can tell you one thing, he's nothing like his parents. They were warm, good people. When I found him again, I'd hoped that I would see some of them in him. Instead...all I got was a boy who didn't want to know me."

"But he's the one that found you. Saved you."

"He did what he thought was right," Sirius countered, "not because he wanted to save me for himself." Sirius paused, staring past Tracey. "I still don't know how he knew. Nobody's ever been able to tell who hadn't already known about me. But when he saw me, the first time that summer – I'd found him at his relatives, he must have known something was wrong. Then when I followed him to Hogwarts, he confronted me, asked who I was. So I told him."

"That's when he took you to Dumbledore," Tracey filled in. She remembered what the whole school had been like. It had been about two months into term, it was everywhere that Potter's killer had escaped. Then Potter himself had appeared one morning in the Great Hall, a big black dog in toe and headed up the aisle, straight to the headmaster. After that, there had been a lot of screaming. A known mass murderer had appeared in the Great Hall, after all. But that was Potter, theatrical twat. No, he couldn't just go to the Headmaster, take him to one side and sort it out; he had to pretend that he was in the middle of a huge play.

"Bloody difficult to explain, too," Sirius said, smirking, "worth it though. Hadn't had that much fun since his dad and me tried to break into McGonagall's office." The laugh died on his lips almost as soon as it began. "But yes, he took me to Dumbledore. I told him about Pettigrew, but by that time we could do anything. He'd already escaped, the damn rat. That was the one time I wish I'd listened to him."

"Who?"

"Harry. He said we should deal with it ourselves, before I went to Dumbledore. But I trusted Albus to do the right thing, I didn't think the rat would be in the hall to see it all happen. He probably scarpered off as soon as he saw me. We'll never know."

 _No_ , Tracey thought. That would be impossible. Pettigrew had been one of the first Death Eaters to die when the resistance had started. Sirius had been the one that found him apparently, according to the rumours. The Order of the Phoenix had been underground, Dumbledore had died when Voldemort had first come back and attempted to invade the Ministry by force. There had been something to do with the Department of Mysteries, but Tracey had no idea what had happened, only that Potter had been involved somehow.

After that, the Order had fought Voldemort at every point they could. Potter had disappeared, and Death Eater numbers had been radically cut down thanks to Mad-Eye Moody, Sirius and the other aurors they'd managed to recruit. But Voldemort had died at Harry's hand and nobody was quite sure how. One day they'd been under an oppressive regime, the next, Harry Potter had appeared in the Atrium of the Ministry with the corpse of the Dark Lord at his feet. That had been it. No big war or pitched battle. One day the resistance had been fighting for their lives, the next, order was restored and everyone went back to normal. It had been disconcerting to say the least. Everyone had expected Potter to lead a charge on entrenched tradition and become the hero they all thought he would be. But typical Potter, he didn't care.

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help," Sirius said again, a touch of genuine regret in his voice.

"But you must know him," Tracey insisted, "a bit. He might not consider you to be family, but you are."

"Haven't you been listening? The only family he had died with his parents. He doesn't want anything to do with me or Remus or the muggles. As far as he's concerned, we all just let him down."

"Doesn't sound like him," Tracey frowned. "Always thought Potter didn't care enough to be bothered by people."

"I think that's what he wants you to think," Sirius said with a sad smile. "He likes to pretend to not care, but you have to remember...the hat put him in Gryffindor. Did you never think that was strange?"

"Bit odd, yeah."

"I think the hat realised he was clever enough as it was. Being in Ravenclaw wouldn't have done anything for him. Instead, what the boy needed was to learn how to be brave. I don't mean in the face of an enemy, Merlin knows he can do that. But against himself. He's never had friends. People like to think it's due to his nature, but I think it's because he's too scared to try."

"No offense, but that still doesn't sound like him at all."

"Think of it this way," Sirius said. "With a brain like his and all the money his parents left him, he could be anything he wanted. But he chooses to spend his days solving crimes. I may not know him as much as I'd like to, but I hope there's still some of James and Lily left in him."

"And if there isn't? What if he's not what you think and all this isn't an act? Maybe he really is the gigantic pain in the arse we all know he is."

"Well, neither you nor I are going to find that out ourselves." Sirius shrugged. "The only person who might come close is your friend."

"So that's your advice? Let her get close to him because we can't?" Tracey asked scornfully.

"It's not really our choice."

"And what if she gets hurt, what then? This might all fun and games to him but Daph's no auror. She's never been in a fight in her life before the other day. That was one day with him, what's another going to do? Or a week? Or a month? She could get really hurt and you're happy to just sit there and watch, are you?"

"It's her choice. And before you say anything else, do not lecture me about losing people. I lost my best friends to a mad man, I had to watch as people died every day for the cause I led them in, and every time I wondered 'why not me?' I understand that you're scared, but this is her life, not yours."

"No, I've been with her through everything. We've been friends since we were kids. I'm not just going to do nothing as she goes gallivanting round with a guy she barely knows. That _nobody_ knows."

Sirius smirked and Tracey felt her temper rise, "what's so funny?" she snapped.

"I used to be like you. Impulsive, hot-tempered, blindingly loyal."

"What changed?"

"I watched my best friend's wife die," Sirius said gravely, "all because he told her to stay safe. They argued and that was the last he saw of her." He paused, his eyes flicking to the fireplace mantle behind Tracey. She turned and saw a picture of Sirius laughing with a young woman whose hair kept shifting and changing. "Nymphadora Tonks. She was one of the best women I ever knew. Sometimes the best thing you can do is sit back and let people do what they want, because they're going to do it anyway, whether you like it or not."

"But can you guarantee that Daphne will be safe?"

"No. What Harry does is dangerous. If she's going to be as involved as you say she is, then I can't promise that."

"Then thanks, but no thanks," Tracey said stiffly. She got to her feet and gave him one last disparaging look. "I'll see myself out."

And with that she turned and walked away, leaving Sirius Black to stare after her, her heart sinking with every step she took.


	6. Dealing with the Demented

Chapter Six: Dealing with the Demented

Daphne almost hadn't gone.

Even that morning she'd been toying with the idea of just saying no and walking away from it all. But as she lay there, staring at the ceiling with Alex's snoring drilling into the depths of her skull, she knew that she couldn't pass it up. So she'd crawled out of bed, careful not to disturb her boyfriend- partly because he needed sleep, but also because she couldn't deal with yet another argument about Harry. He'd been grilling her about it ever since they had bumped into each other, and if she was honest with herself, Daphne was getting sick of it.

The trip had been fairly quick. Harry had shown her where to go a few days before, so all it had taken was a brief shower, a few charms to clean her uniform and a quick apparition.

Daphne gasped as soon as she appeared. Unlike her apartment, the port was freezing. Icy, northern wind whipped at her hair as she stood there getting her bearings. The light of a small boat bobbed at the lively sea, a thin figure standing silhouetted against it.

Daphne drew her wand and cast a hurried warming charm on herself. It spread across her rapidly numbing skin, but even then it was difficult to feel any kind of warmth.

Merlin, she wished she'd worn a thicker robe. Her healer robes weren't designed for the outdoors.

"You're early," the figure commented.

It was only as Daphne approached that she realised it was Harry. His hair was a mess, not aided by the blustery wind. Deep bags hung under his eyes, and his skin was sallow. He looked like he hadn't slept for days.

"Are you alright? You look awful."

"Because my appearance has always been of such importance," he replied curtly.

Though, after Daphne persisted with her concerned stare, he added, "I am fine."

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Thursday? Tuesday? Something beginning with a T," Harry said dismissively.

"It's Saturday."

"And in that time I solved three murders, found a cat named Biggles, and organised our transportation," Harry said, gesturing to the boat with the bobbing light.

"Yeah, that's a natural sequence of events," Daphne muttered. She looked at the dilapidated boat with a small grimace on her face. "Is that thing safe?"

"It's been used for the last hundred years."

"That doesn't fill me with confidence," she said.

Daphne really hated travelling by boat. She hated that they existed. She hated the nauseating hell that they put her stomach through every time she got in one. And despite the fact that this particular boat was no doubt imbued with countless charms to make it as safe as possible, that didn't stop it from looking like it was going to fall apart at any moment. Though, Daphne supposed that was the point. Nobody would ever think to steal it or take a joyride, and therefore, never find themselves in a magical prison.

"And yet we have no other mode of transport open to us," Harry replied simply. "After you."

"Thanks," Daphne grimaced. Gingerly, she approached the boat, the wind blasting at her hair. But as she sat down, her hair lay flat and the cold vanished.

At least she would be warm whilst trying to hurl.

A moment later, Harry joined her, taking the uncomfortable plank of wood, which nautical people thought doubled for a seat, opposite her. With a tap of his wand, the boat began to magically move forwards, much like the ones from Hogwarts.

Daphne didn't like them either.

A long silence ballooned out as they rocked and bobbed towards the wizarding prison. She could see it off in the distance, much too far away. She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, desperately fighting against the wave of nausea that was crashing around inside her. Merlin, why had she agreed to this?

"Interesting fact about Azkaban," Harry said suddenly, breaking the quiet hush that had fallen between them. "It was built in 826 AD, originally serving not as a prison, but as a military outpost for the Anglo-Saxon dynasty against Viking raiders. It was meant to act as an early warning system, but it was utterly useless mainly because the hordes of Viking warriors thought attacking the east coast was too obvious. Given the geographical relationship between Scandinavia and England, it was understandable to be so concerned."

"Fascinating," Daphne muttered through gritted teeth.

"It lay abandoned until 1566," Harry continued, blissfully unaware of the torment that gripped Daphne's stomach. "Elizabeth Frauncis, Agnes Waterhouse and Joan Waterhouse, who all came from Hatfield Peverel, were tried for witchcraft. Elizabeth confessed that she had a cat called Satan whom she used to practise her maleficium. Agnes Waterhouse was hanged, but her daughter was spared. Hatfield Peverel which, as I am sure you are aware, was the home of some of the Peverell family, and is one of the oldest wizarding communities. Joan no longer viewed it as a safe haven, so instead of returning, she discovered Azkaban Island and moved here to establish a sanctuary for witches and wizards who were not adept enough at surviving, or who were simply fearful of death by fire-or the more effective method of hanging."

"I've never heard of any of this," Daphne said.

"That is hardly surprising," Harry nodded, "Joan Waterhouse changed not only her location but also her name after her trial. I imagine you are, however, familiar with the lives of Henrietta and Xavier Black."

"No way."

"The Blacks were rather partial to hiding that particular origin story. It does not match with their image of a strong and noble family," Harry explained. "Hardly noble running away from muggles."

"Bet that was a fun revelation for your godfather," Daphne mused before clamping her jaw shut as another wave of nausea hit with the force of bludger.

"It would be if he knew," Harry nodded. "My godfather and I are not exactly on what one may describe as 'good' terms."

Daphne opened her mouth to speak, but the sudden unclenching combined with a rough bump from the sea forced her to quickly divert from speaking to something much more gut-wrenching and embarrassing. Harry for his part said nothing, and after a few minutes of Daphne emptying her stomach into the sea, she turned back to face him, cheeks flushed and her head swimming.

"Sorry," she muttered quickly. She took out her wand and hurriedly conjured a glass. After a couple of hasty attempts, she managed to fill it with water, missing the first time thanks to the rocking of the boat.

"It's quite alright," Harry told her, "I had assumed that you suffered from sea sickness. It was why I imparted the history of this prison upon you. I had hoped that it would be enough to distract from -"

"Thanks," Daphne said. She didn't need to be further reminded of what had just happened. A headache pressed against her temples as she forced water down her throat. "How long now?"

"It shouldn't be much further."

"Good. Sooner we're back on land the better."

In that moment more than ever, Daphne really hated boats.

True to Harry's word, the rest of the trip didn't take much longer. But even so, it was difficult for Daphne's sickness not to overtake her once again. And by the time they reached the shore, all she wanted to do was get out of the boat.

She let Harry go first, however. Aurors were waiting to take them inside, and she doubted that it would make a good first impression if all they saw was her staggering to safety, paler than most of the Hogwarts ghosts.

"Wand," the lead auror demanded when Daphne had gotten out of the infernal wreck that masqueraded as transport. His eyes were narrow and his moustache practically quivered as he glowered at Harry.

Somehow, Daphne got the feeling that no matter what she looked like, it wouldn't have mattered one jot to the two aurors standing before her. Harry's sparkling personality had already done too much damage.

"And who is this?" the second auror asked as both Daphne and Harry removed their wands and handed them over to the first auror. Her hair was tied back in a remarkably tight ponytail, and she looked about as happy as her partner to be stuck at Azkaban.

"Do you people not read the visitors log?" Harry asked curtly. "I imagine it isn't very long."

"I'm a healer," Daphne cut in before anyone could start shouting or threatening to curse Harry. "Daphne Greengrass. I'm here to help with the interrogation."

"At least one of them has manners," the second auror commented, earning a small smirk from her colleague. "Now, if you'd like to follow us, we'll show you to Wedgewood's cell."

Harry took the lead, following the female auror towards the prison. But before Daphne could follow as well, a large hand had grabbed her firmly by the arm. She looked back into the narrow eyes of the other auror. This time though, those eyes were filled not with malice but with concern.

"You ever been here before?" he asked in a hushed tone.

Daphne shook her head.

"It can be tough, first time. No-one will think less of you if you need to leave."

"If I did, would you seriously let Harry talk to Wedgewood without me?" Daphne asked. When her question was greeted with nothing but silence, she gave a small nod. "I thought not."

"Just trying to do you a favour," the auror shrugged, "your dad was a good auror."

"And I'm a good healer," she said. "I think we've both got the stomach for it."

"On your head," was all the auror said as Daphne pulled her arm from his grasp and followed the others up the stone path.

It was somehow colder, darker even. And as Daphne pulled her robes tightly around her, she knew the chill had nothing to do with the weather. Unfortunately, no charms would be able to fight it off, either. A small ball of dread settled in her stomach as she blindly followed the path. It was surrounded on both sides by large earth works as if it had been cut out of the island itself which, if the stories about Henrietta Black were true, was hardly surprising.

It was only when they reached its end, that Daphne saw it. In the boat, she'd been too preoccupied to look where they were going, but now it was as clear as day.

Her heart sank.

It stood there like a huge monolith, battered and scarred but still standing despite the ferocity of the sea it stood in. The walls were tall and made of black stone. Here and there, Daphne could see what she supposed were meant to be windows but just looked like battle scars cut out of the stone. A huge iron gate stood at the entrance, tall and imposing. And as they neared, Daphne could hear the sound of metal dragging across metal as the chains attached to the top were pulled back, allowing the gate to rise. But it wasn't even the building itself that was the worst part. It was the two things that stood guard that made Daphne's heart stop and her blood run cold.

Dementors. They hung a few inches from the ground, cloaked in black, and whatever passed as its face remained hidden beneath the huge hood. Daphne could feel them look up and stare at the party of witches and wizards that walked towards them. It was only in that moment that she realised the truth of her father's words all those years ago: that to stand near a Dementor was to stand on the edge of despair. A deep unhappiness had settled upon her, practically seeping into her bones, and with every step, it only got worse and worse.

And then suddenly the feeling was gone. Daphne looked around and realised that a small, ethereal fox had appeared next to her. She hadn't even heard the spell being cast. The female auror whose wand was held aloft and whose patronus now guarded them, gave Daphne a small, sympathetic smile.

How could they work like this? Perhaps more to the point, how did the prisoners cope? The answer, of course, was that they didn't.

Even with the patronus shielding them from the effects of the Dementors, Daphne still felt uneasy as she and Harry were led into the three hundred year old prison. It was no brighter on the inside. Everywhere Daphne looked, there were shadows and gloom. And as soon as she was inside, she could hear the screams and wails.

They were taken away from the main body of the prison, through several narrow stone corridors, when finally, they reached a small room. There were no windows, two large torches lit the room. The flames made their shadows dance as Daphne and Harry were told to take their seats. Unsurprisingly, the chairs were uncomfortable and the table that Daphne found herself leaning on was hard and somewhat sticky.

"You will wait here until the prisoner is brought to you," the male auror intoned dully. "You will not leave this room and you will not communicate with any other prisoners. For the safety of the prisoner, Auror Scott will remain in the room for the duration of your interview. Any questions?"

Harry said nothing and ignored the auror. Daphne shook her head.

"We will return momentarily," the male auror finished. And then he and the female auror, Scott, retreated out of the room, leaving Daphne and Harry alone.

"How long do you think they'll be?" Daphne asked when she couldn't take the silence any longer.

"A few minutes," Harry answered.

Daphne had expected him to have a quill and parchment, but instead he was just sat there, his face calm. Did anything ever get to him? One leg was crossed over the other and his fingers tapped erratically on his leg, but apart from that, he was completely still.

"I shouldn't imagine it would take very long to persuade Wedgewood to accompany them," he said. "He has been here for decades."

"Whoever came up with this place was insane," Daphne muttered darkly. "It's…"

"Archaic," Harry finished. "You would be surprised how many of your laws are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That compared to muggle standards, Wizarding Britain leaves a lot to be desired. Hiding from their world has not only left you naïve, but with a desperate need to cling to tradition, as well. Anything that has happened for one reason or another has been perpetuated in the name of maintaining your history. It is misguided, not to mention foolish."

"You're one of us too, you know," Daphne bit back, a little more hotly than she intended.

"I walk in both worlds. It allows me to see the advantages and problems of both. Do not imagine that the muggles have all the answers, they do not. They can be just as cruel, bigoted and idiotic. I'm merely suggesting that we," his hand gestured between them, "as wizards and witches, could do with following their example. At times."

Daphne shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She couldn't help but agree with him, this place felt wrong.

"I can make that chair a little more suitable, if you like?" Harry asked, noting her discomfort.

"How?"

He withdrew a wand from the depths of his jacket. "People always seem so happy to stop at one, they never imagine that I have more than one wand."

"Where'd you get that?"

"My pocket," Harry answered as he waved the wand.

Suddenly the aged wooden chair felt soft-a cushioning charm. The wand disappeared back into his jacket. No alarms went off, no wards. The interview rooms probably weren't rigged to detect magic. At least, Daphne hoped they weren't. It would be a stupid thing to get kicked out for, and she hadn't travelled on that stupid boat into a living nightmare for nothing.

"Very funny," Daphne commented flatly.

"But originally it belonged to the headmaster, and then to Voldemort."

There was a pause. The kind of pause that was motivated by expectation and used by school teachers when they asked questions they thought their students knew the answer to. But this pause, just like that of a school teacher, dragged on far longer than anticipated.

"What?" Daphne asked eventually.

"You didn't react. The majority of people usually react to that name, even now. As if his spectre would somehow come to haunt them."

"Yeah, well, Dad always thought it was stupid. He said he'd fought people just like him before. He tried to get me and my sister used to hearing it when we were kids. Mum hated him for it."

"He was right," Harry nodded, "it is moronic. Glad to see you don't fall into that category."

They were interrupted from talking further by the opening of the door. Scott was the first to walk in, then a long-haired man in thick, metal shackles followed her. His head was bowed and his back was curved so as to accommodate his slumped shoulders. He looked at none of them as he was guided gently towards the only other chair in the room, the one that was facing Daphne and Harry and that had its back to the door.

At least she had some kind of care for the prisoners. She took his arms and placed them onto the table. With a tap of her wand, the chain between his wrists melted and began to seep into surface below, and with another tap, the links solidified again, leaving him firmly trapped in the table. Then Scott retreated, taking up a position against the wall, away from the interrogation.

"You have ten minutes," the male auror said from the doorway before slamming it shut and heading back out into the prison.

The prisoner, Wedgewood, stared resolutely at the floor. Daphne said nothing, having no idea what to say. Harry hadn't really briefed her on the case, she was just there to make sure he didn't upset Wedgewood or cause him any lasting damage. No more than he'd already suffered, anyway.

"Hello Joseph," Harry said, his voice taking a gentle tone that Daphne had never heard before. He leant forwards a little, resting his arms on the table so that Wedgewood could see them. His emerald eyes were fixed on the man in front of him. "My name is Harry Potter. This is my associate, Daphne Greengrass. She is a healer."

"And… and w-what are you?" Wedgewood stammered nervously.

"I am a detective, I consult for the aurors. I believe that they did you a disservice by putting you here, and that you did not kill your wife." Harry waited, as if hoping for another interruption. When he didn't get one, he continued. "You didn't kill your wife, did you, Joseph? You just told them that you did. Why?"

"They-they told me to."

"Who told you?"

"The men, the ones that put me here. They said I had to. Said it was good for me. It isn't good, no-not at all. I hate it here. I want to leave. But they won't let me. They say I can't. But they promised. Did they lie?"

"They offered you a deal," Harry concluded, "to shorten your sentence if they could forgo a trial." Wedgewood nodded fervently, his lank hair shaking backwards and forwards.

"The evidence they had on you was circumstantial, they needed a confession and then a guilty plea to gain a prosecution."

A bitterness laced Harry's voice as he spoke-the cold and calculating manner that Daphne was used to when he talked about crimes was cracking. She shot him a look and shook her head. Wedgewood needed calm. He was depressed, anxious, and probably a host of other things that Daphne couldn't diagnose just by looking. He needed to be kept as level headed as possible.

"They promised I could leave," Wedgewood said, his voice trembling. "I ne-need to go. I shouldn't be here. You know I shouldn't. Don't you? You believe me?"

"We believe you," Daphne interjected, "but it would really help us Joseph-you don't mind if I call you Joseph, do you?" He shook his head. "It would really help us if you could tell us what happened. Would you do that for us, please? I understand it's difficult, but it could go a long way in getting you what you want. So please, help us. Tell us what happened."

"I-I…"

"Take your time," Daphne said reassuringly, keeping her voice neutral. She didn't want to push him too far. From the brief part of her training on mental health, she could remember that letting the patient do it in their own time was crucial. Merlin, why had Harry picked her? She wasn't qualified for this, she had a qualification, admittedly, but she wasn't _qualified_.

"It was dark," Wedgewood suddenly burst out. "She was just lying there. I-I couldn't do anything."

Harry almost imperceptibly nodded, like he was storing that little nugget of information away for later.

"I called for the aurors, I wanted them to help me. That's what they do. That's their job. But they asked me questions, so many questions. And then they told me I'd be here. That I'd done that to her. But I hadn't. I couldn't. I loved her. Why would I hurt her?" Tears were rolling freely down his cheeks as he sobbed.

"Joseph, can you tell if you saw this that night?" Harry asked, removing a small photograph from his pocket. He slid it towards Wedgewood, who shot a glance at Scott before picking it up.

"No," Wedgewood answered, almost immediately. "She must've lost it."

"You're certain?" Harry pressed, another crack in that gentle façade appearing as the gears in his brain whirred to life.

"Yes," Wedgewood nodded. "Why? What does a neck-"

"Absolutely nothing," Harry said quickly, cutting across Wedgewood. "Well, thank you for your time, we won't keep you. Auror Scott, if you would. And then return our wands."

It wasn't a question, it was an order disguised in feigned politeness. Scott frowned, but did as she was told. Wedgewood was staring at them, for the first time, his mouth open and his eyes wide. It took Scott a moment to drag him to his feet, and even longer to persuade him to walk to the door and back to his captors. But it was only when he left that Daphne rounded on Harry.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded angrily. "You can't just do that to someone in a state like his, do you have any idea what you could've done to him?"

"I must admit that my concern for his mental wellbeing was a secondary one, but before you continue I did have good reason."

"You better had. I'm here to stop you from pulling that kind of stunt, and yet you did it anyway."

"I did it to stop Wedgewood from revealing what I'd found," Harry said. He retrieved the photo from his pocket and passed it to Daphne.

"So, it's a necklace, so what?"

"That is the necklace of Rebecca Wedgewood, the murdered wife. It was taken for the _Daily Prophet_ , but that necklace was never found. It wasn't recorded in evidence and because the aurors didn't know they were looking for it, they did not find its absence suspicious. But it does suggest that Joseph Wedgewood is indeed, innocent."

"Because of some missing necklace?"

"It wasn't just a necklace, it was a family heirloom. Wedgewood would know if he'd seen it. I believe that he was telling the truth. He did not, meaning that it was stolen. And what brand of killer would steal only one item and leave everything else accounted for?"

Daphne shrugged, but she could feel a sickening knot begin to tighten in the pit of her stomach.

"A serial killer."


	7. Working the Case

Chapter Seven: Working the Case

 _Life is full of cross-roads. It's a cliché, but it's true. There are times when you realise that everything you know might change. And there are times you have no idea until you wake up months later only to realise that you've already changed. You've already taken a step down that road that your life has become._

 _This was not one of those times. When I left Azkaban, I knew that I had a choice. Until then I had been dabbling as a detective, just giving a sounding board to Harry's suspicions._

 _After seeing Wedgewood, I had to make a choice. And for all my hesitancy, there was only ever going to be one outcome._

Taken from Chapter Four of The Chronicles of Harry Potter, written by Daphne Greengrass

oOo

They sailed back to the shore in silence. This time there was no stories about the Blacks to distract Daphne from the turmoil taking place in her stomach. Instead, Harry just sat there, staring into the distance. It was like she could see his brain working at top speed, connecting the various dots that she doubted she even knew about yet. That was the thing with working with Harry. He was always so many steps ahead.

 _Working with?_

Was that what she was doing now?

She had a job, a real job. Yet all Daphne had been thinking about the last few days-hell, the last few weeks-was the time that she got to spend with Harry. It wasn't that she hated her actual job, not really. It was just that she didn't exactly like it either. It was just there. Something that she did because, well, it was what she'd always wanted to do and had always done. Working with Harry though, that was different. Better.

"So, what's the plan?" Daphne asked once they had disembarked and headed away from the boat.

"The plan?"

"Yeah, what are we doing now?"

"We?"

"You know," she said, "for a smart guy you ask a lot of questions."

"Only an idiot doesn't ask questions," Harry commented. "Besides, I presumed that you would have somewhere to be."

"I booked the day off," Daphne said.

It wasn't a total lie. She hadn't exactly booked it, per se. Instead, she'd said that she was working in tandem with an official auror-sanctioned investigation and wasn't sure when she would be returning. Her boss knew about Harry, so he'd just gone along with it. Daphne was only praying they wouldn't ask for proof when she got back.

Harry arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

 _He_ bloody _knows_ , Daphne thought bitterly. _He knows I'm lying and he's not going to say anything_.

She dreaded to think what it must be like to date him, and then idly wondered if anyone had ever tried. Somehow, she doubted it.

"So, we do have a plan, right?"

"I have a plan, yes," Harry nodded. "If my suspicions are correct, which I believe that they are, then it is essential to discover this killer's pattern. The whole point of taking trophies is for the killer to able to differentiate between victims. The more one kills, the more difficult it becomes to discern which is which. The psychology of psychosis, if you would."

"That's what it is then? Trophies?"

"Is it?" Harry asked, leading them away from the small jetty and back towards the small town which was slowly blinking into life like a student around mid-afternoon.

"Well, that's what you said," Daphne started slowly.

Harry didn't answer.

She felt this was some kind of test. "But I suppose, it might not be. I know they never put it in the papers, but didn't Voldemort use those horcrux things? My dad told me about them, they're really old and dark magic but they can keep you alive."

"I would not call it a life," Harry muttered darkly, "but yes, that is the designated purpose."

"Don't you have to… kill to do that?"

"It isn't simply a murder, there's more to it than that. It's a ritual. The murder itself has to be pre-meditated and purely in cold blood. Then there are certain steps to follow, spells to cast. A murder causes a wound in the very soul. These spells further exacerbate this wound in order to rip the soul apart. At least...that is the theory. I have never attempted it myself. You are correct, though, these trophies could be more than they seem."

He paused, coming to a halt so suddenly that Daphne nearly walked into him.

"Before I, or perhaps we, continue, I must ask: what exactly is it you wish to gain from this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Our first case together was accidental and our further consultations purely theoretical. I suspected that you, as I do, have a certain feel for this line of work. Yet, if we continue on our current trajectory I must inquire as to what your exact intentions are. Is this simply a hobby? A way for you to distract yourself from the monotony of your work."

"Are you saying I don't like my job?"

"I am saying that you detest it. I cannot blame you, but this is no game."

"I know, I'm not stupid. I realise it's difficult for you to understand this sometimes, but not everybody's thick."

"No," Harry agreed, his voice gaining a small sense of… something, "they are not. You still haven't answered my question."

Daphne didn't answer for a moment. What was it that she wanted from all of this? Up to this point, she'd just been going along with it. Yes, she enjoyed it, but she'd never really wondered why or if it was going somewhere. She'd just known that it was better than what she already had, and she'd be damned if she was just going to walk away.

"I don't know," Daphne said eventually. It wasn't much of an answer, but it was the truth. "I honestly don't. This has been one of the biggest surprises of my life. Everything else I've ever done has been part of a huge plan to help me get where I wanted to be. Only problem is... now that I'm there, I'm not really sure that's what I want. You're right. I do hate my job, and this is just… better. What you do is…" she paused, unable to find a right word. But then it came to her, and she couldn't help but smile. "Magical."

Not so much as crease cracked over his ever-passive face. _Merlin, did he ever smile?_

Harry didn't say anything, he didn't have to. He just held out a hand and when Daphne took it, they vanished. A moment later and a few hundred miles away, they reappeared. Gone was the tiny village and instead, it was replaced with the bustling streets of muggle London. Daphne gasped, expecting there to be cries of surprise at two people appearing out of nowhere. But there was nothing. No screams. No-one running.

"How did they not notice?"

"As you said," Harry answered, letting go of her hand and side-stepping a large man who was more preoccupied with a small box of light in his hand than where he was going, "people are 'thick.'"

"I said not everyone's thick," Daphne scowled, dodging a woman who was blabbering on into a similar slim box as the man who Harry had just avoided. "What are they doing anyway?"

"Welcome to the modern world," Harry said dryly. "You have letters, owls, patronuses, muggles have phones. They are a means by which everyone can stay in contact within an instant. You would be surprised how much they have managed to shrink the globe without magic."

"Okay, but why aren't they looking where they're – Ow!" Daphne staggered back as a hulking man in a beige coat bounced off her. "Hey! Do you mind?"

"The only issue with living without magic is that transport is a little more limited."

"Should you be talking about it so loudly? Won't anyone notice?"

"No-one's listening," Harry shrugged, "and even if they were, most people would simply assume that we were discussing popular culture. Muggles have a certain fascination with fictional magic, I suppose it is logical to miss what one cannot have. Interestingly, the first reference to magic within a popular medium was not by muggle, but a squib. His wishful thinking has simply been perpetuated over the centuries."

"Yeah, fascinating," Daphne muttered bitterly as she rubbed her arm. The worst part was that it actually was. But intriguing trivia wasn't what she wanted. All she wanted was to be away from the hubbub of non-magical life. How they coped, she had no idea. "Can we get out of here?"

"Certainly," Harry obliged and led the way down the packed street. They weren't walking for very long, though it was long enough for Daphne to develop passive dislikes of at least ten people who stormed past her. Harry had led her away from the packed high street with its many glass fronted shops and their bizarre interiors that Daphne was not entirely sure she understood. The road they stopped on was still busy, but nowhere near as busy.

"Is that it?" Daphne asked, trying not to let her scepticism creep into her voice. It didn't seem very Harry. It looked exactly like all the other houses on the street. A black door was laid into a wall of brown brick. A large window allowed light to pool into what Daphne assumed was the living room, the curtains were pulled shut. It looked normal and ordinary. The very words that didn't describe Harry, at all.

"Appearances, you should know, are sometimes deceiving," Harry said as he fished out a set of key from his pocket and walked towards the door. "I used to live on the other side of the city, on Baker Street, but it was a little too… Victorian, for my tastes." He slipped the key into the door, there was a click and then he pushed it open. "After you."

Daphne let him guide her into what had no right to be such a spacious hallway. No, it wasn't a hallway, it was an open-plan room. To her right was a large sofa in front of a huge fireplace. There was a low coffee table made of light pine wood. Another wing-backed arm chair sat by the window, a mismatched dark leather brown poof in front of it. A t-shirt had been discarded on top of it. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled to the brim with tomes of various sizes and titles that Daphne knew would astound her. And though the curtains had looked closed on the outside, light flooded into the living room.

Almost immediately in front of her, a set of stairs led the way to the first floor, where Daphne assumed Harry's room was. If he slept, that is. He never seemed to.

A small archway made a small divide to the kitchen which was a complete mess. The sink overflowed with pans and plates and all sorts of kitchen utensils. The kitchen table itself was piled high with glass equipment, flasks and jars and a bunch of things that Daphne didn't recognise. A large cauldron was bubbling in the corner by the stove, bluebell flames underneath it burning brightly.

"This is your house?" Daphne asked when Harry had entered and removed his jacket, placing it on a hook by the door.

"Yes," Harry said in a bored voice, taking his wand from the waistband of his trousers where he'd stored it after their cross-country trip and causing the logs in the fireplace to burst into flames. They burnt merrily behind the glass front.

"It's a mess."

"Cleaning is boring," Harry explained, "besides, I had other things to do. Or have you already forgotten the trip down lunatic lane?"

He gave his wand another flick and Daphne had to quickly side-step a couple of large brown boxes that came flying their way from the kitchen. They were guided onto the coffee table, which was already littered with various other bits of paper.

"They're not lunatics."

"I'd hardly call them sane," Harry argued, "but, debating the details of an archaic and flawed justice system are for another time. I have files to sort through."

"We."

"I," Harry corrected.

"Then what am I here for?"

"I'll need someone to talk through the finer points of the case with once I've been able to eliminate other cases that do not fit the M.O. of our killer."

"Then I'll look at the one we already have, see if there are points you should be looking out for."

"Kitchen," Harry said abruptly.

"I'm sorry?"

"That case file, it's in the kitchen, under the kneazle eyes."

"Please tell me you're joking," Daphne grimaced.

"They're in a dish," Harry said flatly as if that made it okay. "It helped solve the double murder of twins and the theft of a priceless ornamental eagle if that eases your concern."

Daphne privately swore that it didn't, but made her way into the kitchen anyway. It took her a minute to find what Harry meant, and then a little longer to muster up the courage to actually move anything.

The case file didn't reveal too much more than Daphne already knew.. Joseph Wedgewood had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of his wife Rebecca Wedgewood. She'd been killed with a rather nasty cutting curse that must have caught her carotid artery. The photographs didn't make for pretty viewing, the pool of blood that had been left underneath her body on the hardwood floor of their living room would haunt Daphne for days.

She had been pretty though, small, dark haired, with a dimple on her left cheek when she smiled. She'd been about five foot and four inches tall, slim too. Certainly made for an easy type to find.

Daphne gave up on that and began looking at the evidence that landed her husband in jail. As far as she could tell, the aurors had had very little. The interviews with friends and family had illuminated a small spat between the couple, but what couple didn't fight? It had been something to do with his work. Apparently he'd been spending a lot of time at the office and Rebecca had been a little suspicious. But proof of anything happening had been non-existent. It was just rumour. Joseph's wand had yielded no evidence either.

The interview made for grim reading. The lead auror had been so determined to prove that Joseph had done it that he'd used all sorts of techniques to make him crumble-intimidation, kindness, 'logic' twisted to suit his version of the truth, anything and everything. And it had worked.

Merlin, how had aurors been able to get away with this? Before the rise of Voldemort, the first time, procedure had been lax, to say the least. Daphne wouldn't have been surprised if they're cursed Joseph a few times when his barrister hadn't been there just to show him who was boss.

"How's it going?"

"If you're referring to the narrowing down of candidates for possible serial murder victims," Harry said, from his position on the floor surrounded by open cases files and discarded snack wrappers. "Utterly inconclusive. There are fifty-three murders in which the victim was female, aged twenty to twenty-five and of roughly the same height and build of Rebecca Wedgewood in the last forty years. Twelve of which have been 'solved.' If we weren't already on the hunt for one criminal, I'd suggest it was the aurors behind these statistics. They are appalling. I've solved almost all of them already."

"And how does that help us?"

"It doesn't," Harry snapped irritably.

"Maybe it's not the women," Daphne suggested, "maybe it's the trophy itself. You know, the thing you said the killer took to differentiate. That could've been the prize all along and the killing was part of getting it?"

"No," Harry said dismissively, "that doesn't fit into any recognised –" He stopped, frowning and pulling at an open file. "Not the women."

"Sorry?"

"It's not the women!" Harry shouted triumphantly, "it's the men."

He snatched up one of the files on the floor and started flicking through it hurriedly. Then, he dived towards the discarded box which he and Daphne had sorted through earlier, and started pulling out more.

"We've been looking at this the wrong way. Serial killers usually focus on their victims, make the ritual about them. But this isn't. If I am right, this is about the people they leave behind."

He practically ran back to the coffee table and spread out the various files. Daphne could see seven different women, all of varying look, height, age. They had literally nothing in common with their case at first glance, except for one.

"Who is Diana Riley?" Daphne asked, frowning at the woman who Daphne would swear-if she didn't otherwise-was related to Rebecca Wedgewood.

"She ran a small potioneering business in Diagon Alley with her husband, Jacob. He was later accused but never convicted. Interestingly their family heirloom, a priceless ring, was stolen. Riley reported it missing as it was also his wife's engagement ring. Neither the killer, nor the ring were ever found."

"Look at the way she was killed," Harry flicked open the file and presented Daphne with the crime scene photos.

"It's just like Wedgewood," Daphne breathed.

"Precisely," Harry nodded, "the same can be said for all of these other women. Charlotte Finnigan, Maria Walters, Anne Clark, Stephanie Dunbar, who interestingly was killed on a train, Pippa Barrington and Alice Steadman, as well as Diana Riley and Rebecca Wedgewood. All of them were murdered using the same method, had items taken from their body and had prominent articles in various different newspapers."

"How do you know all that?"

"I have a photographic memory," Harry shrugged, "I can remember every single thing I've ever read and I can assure you that these women were all murdered and reported on with vigour. That is what the killer is looking for. He doesn't care for the act itself, he enjoys the spectacle, watching as their husbands are left helpless to do anything. This killer is obsessed with taking power from the powerful. Except for?"

"Diana Riley, her husband just owned a shop."

"I would hypothesise that that is where our killer started, likely as an employee or someone else whom Jacob had power over. Then it spread, each of our victims were married to influential men throughout the magical world."

"That's a lot of inferring from pretty much nothing. We've got no actual proof."

"We have circumstance, clear motive, and a similar modus operandi. Most of these are over twenty years old. It was unlikely that we would find anything else."

"Why'd they stop?"

"Presumably because our killer could no longer kill. Serial killers are not the type to have a change of heart."

"What stopped them, then?"

"Jail, death, a move to Barbados, who can say? Without having a pool of people to suspect, it is rather difficult to speculate as to why they would stop. It appears that Jacob Riley is worth talking to, wouldn't you agree? He still owns his shop. If we go now we might be able to get there before it closes."

Daphne opened her mouth to agree, but then another thought which had lain dormant for the entire day at the back of her mind suddenly kicked into life. She groaned. She'd forgotten, she'd bloody forgotten. He was going to kill her. Metaphorically.

"Shit, I can't. I said I'd meet Alex at the Leaky Cauldron."

"Who?" Harry asked. He had already summoned his coat and was slipping into it. Daphne noticed that he had also gotten her robe.

"My boyfriend. How can you not remember, you've met him."

He looked like he wanted to say something, but settled eventually on, "So I have. My mistake. It appears then that we will at least make the journey together. So, shall we?"

He held out a long thin arm, gesturing towards the door. His back was ramrod straight and his expression, expressionless. She'd thought he might be happy, or excited or something. But Daphne was greeted with nothing. Had her mind not been so focused on hurriedly getting into her robes, or desperately trying to remember what time she said she would meet Alex, then maybe she would have given it some thought.

As it was, she didn't, and instead simply led the way out of the house.


	8. Jacob Riley

Chapter Eight: Jacob Riley

"He's not coming," Harry said bluntly after fifteen minutes of waiting in the Leaky Cauldron.

The pub was rammed with people, all sorts of sounds, smells and offensive language bombarded Daphne's senses as she stood at its centre looking around for Alex. Sometimes she thought she saw his hair, or someone who wore similar clothes; but each time it turned out to be a trick of the light or a coincidence of fashion.

"He's always late," Daphne told him, the excuse feeling limp and feeble even as she said it. She was starting to get sick of him not seeming to give a damn, and after he'd been the one to suggest it.

Harry hummed, a noise Daphne had come to associate with him either having an opinion he didn't want to share or noting away information for later. Neither was particularly appealing. He checked his watch.

"Well, you could either, stay here and wait – which frankly seems like a ludicrous use of your time, or you can accompany me to talk to Jacob Riley."

"You don't need me," Daphne said dismissively.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because maybe I'm not cut out for this, I mean, you're the one that figured all this out, not me." Daphne admitted, the tendril of self-doubt that had been gripping her all day forcing her to speak. Harry seemed so self-assured, so intensely confident that she felt anything but by his side. What had she done, really? As far as she could tell nothing.

"If I saw no use for you, then I would not allow you to accompany me. Though I will say that I have no time for doubt, either be confident in your abilities or leave. You may not have made the connection, but your input, your ideas, they were what allowed me to see it. You are valuable, whether your boyfriend wants to admit it or not. Now, are you to accompany me or are you simply going to wait and pine?"

"No one's ever called me valuable before," Daphne smiled.

"Then they clearly weren't paying attention," Harry said before he turned and led the way out of the Leaky Cauldron and into the Diagon Alley. The entrance was already open thanks to a gaggle of kids fighting their way through, their new school supplies in hand.

"Where's the shop?" Daphne asked as they proceeded down the street. It was slowly emptying, the shops were all closing and only the customers that had been in there before the deadline were allowed to stay for a final fifteen minutes of browsing.

"Near the end," Harry said, "just before Gringotts. Hopefully, Mister Riley will let us in."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we're lucky I'm not an auror," Harry answered, as if the thought of breaking the law was something that didn't bother him. Daphne arched an eyebrow at the implication, but she could hardly say that she was surprised. He stole evidence, managed to find his way into several different crime-scenes and houses without any form of governmental papers. He seemed to operate above the law, not like all those auror novels she'd read when she was a kid. In those the heroes always had painful inner debates as to what the law meant and whether breaking it to save a life or solve a case was worth it. Harry, it seemed, did not share such a conscience. Daphne just hoped that Jacob Riley did let them in, she wasn't sure what she'd do if he didn't.

"Here we are," Harry said, dragging Daphne from her thoughts. The shop was old, like every shop on Diagon Alley. Magic meant impossible levels of sustainability, which in turn allowed for a lack of innovation in architecture. 'Why bother re-designing when you could just keep the same shop?' shop keepers reasoned. Answer? There wasn't one.

Harry stepped forwards, so as he was close to glass front and peered inside, then he knocked. A few moments later and a tall dark-skinned man appeared, his moustache was trimmed and greying and his thick eyebrows were furrowed in confusion and mild annoyance. He looked old and cantankerous, the kind of expression that could only be obtained through a life-time of retail.

"We're closed," the man said gruffly, he had a thick Bristol accent and apparently no time for late night visitors. "Can't you read the sign?"

"Mister Riley, my name is Harry Potter."

"Yes, I know who you are," Jacob Riley said, "it still doesn't mean that you can come in."

"We're not looking for a potion, we're trying to solve the murder of your wife. I am investigator, and this is my associate Healer Greengrass."

"That was over thirty years ago, why now? Why do the Ministry send you now when they couldn't care then?"

"They didn't send us," Daphne interjected.

"So you are freelance, you expect gold?" The disgust in his voice was almost palpable.

"No," Harry assured him, "we just want to help."

"Out of the goodness of your hearts?" Riley asked sceptically. "I have heard stories about you Mister Potter, I can assure that your heart was never mentioned. In fact, only its absence was made clear."

"You mistake my intentions. Joseph Wedgewood is currently languishing in Azkaban because of a crime he is innocent of, a crime I believe was committed by the same person who killed your wife. I do not act out of kindness, I act out of an interest in solving what lesser men failed to."

"And you?" Riley asked, turning his glare onto Daphne, "why are you here? Should you not be in St. Mungo's?"

"I want to help," Daphne answered, it was all she could think of and it was true. The reason, like Harry's, was partly selfish. She enjoyed making a difference, it felt good; but she also wanted to help people. It was why she'd been a healer in the first place.

There was a long pause, and then a sigh followed by the sound of locks being magically drawn back and charms being undone.

"Come in," Riley said bitterly, "before I change my mind."

The shop wasn't what Daphne would describe as appealing, candlelight flickered and danced, rows and rows of meticulously labelled bottles stood on shelves that barely anyone would ever see. Riley ran a niche business. Potion-making was a skill, like any other, only it required more patience and the ability to accept that at any moment your eyebrows would no longer be a permanent feature of your face – at least, until a hasty healing charm could be applied amid violent swearing.

Daphne idly examined the bottles as Riley showed them into the backroom, some were mundane like _Waxley's Hair Restorer_ and _Gnome Repellent_ but others were a bit more interesting. Daphne's attention was particularly drawn by _Devil's Delight_ and wondered what exactly it entailed.

It was even worse in the backroom, gone were the rows and rows of potions in a large spaces, instead they were crammed on every wall and in various cardboard boxes. Riley probably had been unable to get permission for an extension charm had had to make do with the normal dimensions of the room. It wasn't a pretty sight. All sorts of different coloured liquids seeped out onto the floor, some looked like they'd burn through clothes. Various stains were plastered against the wall, no doubt from an all too unhappy reaction of potions mixing.

Riley took up a position next to the most precarious pile of boxes, taking out a cigarette and, against Daphne's better judgement, lighting it. She almost expected the entire room to explode. He inhaled deeply and let out a calm sigh. His temper seemed to vanish. That was no normal tobacco.

"So," Riley said, his voice losing its hostility and edge, "what do you want?"

"Information, specifically about your employees around the time of your wife's murder." Harry answered, he was examining the various bottles and labels.

"There wasn't that many of us," Riley shrugged, "me and Diana, obviously, then there was Hayley and Clark, oh, and Zoe, but she left not soon after Diana died. You don't think they had anything to do with it?"

"The majority of murders are committed by someone you know," Harry said, rather bluntly. "It is often a passionate and very violent crime, there needs to be a motive, reason. The killer we're looking for, we believe, started here. Why? Were you a good boss Mister Riley?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's a simple question," Harry said, "because you certainly aren't a good proprietor. From what I can see there are fifteen potions made using illegal ingredients. Three from endangered species. Please do not deny it, Mister Riley. I don't want to call the aurors any more than you do."

"Then what do you want?"

"An accurate assessment of your character," Harry answered, "I believe you are a liar, so I would like to address that now so as you do not lie to me again. Now, were you a good boss?"

"I like to think so," Riley answered stiffly.

"And is that because your wife did the majority of the work?" Harry asked. "The twitch in your eye, cuts on your fingers and stains on your forearm all lead me to believe that you are the potioneer, rather than the businessman. She was the front, you were the brains. Even now you cannot adjust, no doubt because of your dazzling personality."

"Yes," Riley said through gritted teeth. "But I handled finding people, Diana she just dealt with the people side. It was me that organised everything. Me that had to deal with ordering and making, I tried to get an apprentice, that was what Clark did, but after Diana died I couldn't teach and run the business. Not by myself."

"Did you have ever upset any of your employees?" asked Harry.

"No." Riley ground out bitterly, his thick thumb fiddling with the wedding ring that he still wore on his left hand.

"Positive?"

"Yes."

Harry let out an exasperated sigh, knocking his glasses up with his knuckles as he rubbed his eyes. "Stop lying."

"I'm not -"

"Your ring, you play with your ring when you don't tell the truth, it's a classic defence mechanism. It reassures you, particularly when discussing your wife." Harry snapped rapidly, his hands wildly gesticulating as he spoke. "You clearly miss her, so why aren't you telling me the truth?"

"I don't have to -"

Harry looked like he wanted to explode, his jaw was clenched and the veins in his temple were throbbing.

"Actually, you do," Daphne interrupted, as calmly as she could, "we believe eight women were killed by this man, including your wife. If you don't talk to us now, you're stopping the best chance at catching him. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

"I didn't kill them."

"No-one is saying you did," Daphne said, doing her best to provide some kind of safety valve to a conversation that had dramatically gotten out of hand.

"Then why all this? Asking me questions about how I got on with my workers, calling me liar, you're just trying to frame me up like they did."

"The idiocy of paranoia," Harry muttered savagely just low enough that everyone in the room was painfully aware of what he'd said. "You are not the killer, in fact nothing could be further from the truth. We believe that your wife was murdered _because_ of you."

Daphne almost couldn't believe that he'd said it. Her heart sank. No matter how much of a dick Riley was being, there was no need to tell him that. Evidently Harry didn't agree.

"What… what do you mean?"

"We believe that this killer is acting as they do out of an attempt to take power from those connected with their victims, their husbands. Every other woman who was murdered was connected to influential figures in the magical community, you are neither influential nor important, meaning that your presence here was the catalyst. Now I'm going to ask you one final time, were you a good boss?"

"Yes," Riley said again, "I think I was. I didn't give 'em an easy ride, mind you. They were here to work."

"So they could have perceived you as perhaps a little over-zealous?" Harry asked.

"Might've done," Riley shrugged, and then his tone changed, became harsher. "Shouldn't be so precious in my book, time was you had work for a living." A look of realisation spread across his aged features. "You don't think that's caused all this, do you?" Harry said nothing. "I never meant anything by it, I was just trying to get the best out of 'em. Why would someone kill my wife just because of that?"

"We're going to need the names and addresses of those people," Harry told him, it wasn't a request. Daphne half expected Riley to argue, but he didn't. Instead he just drew his wand, muttered a quick summoning charm and a moment later various pieces of paper flew into the room. Wordlessly he handed them to Harry, who almost immediately turned and headed away. An awkward moment passed between Riley and Daphne as the poor man stared at her, open-mouthed and distraught. Then Daphne too walked away, leaving Riley to his thoughts.

"Did you have to do that?" Daphne asked when they were out of the shop and back on the street.

"Do what?"

"Blame him like that."

"I didn't see you doing anything to stop me," Harry pointed out. "Besides, Mister Riley is a smuggler and I'd wager an awful man to work for. Had I not blamed him, as you call it, then I doubt he would have opened up to us as he did. Clearly, he managed upset his workforce, enough for one to exact revenge and I think I know exactly who we need to talk to."


	9. Meeting a Murderer

Chapter Nine: Meeting a Murderer

"This is a bad idea," Daphne said as she let herself be led up a deserted street. Far off in the distance there were sounds of cheering and laughter, some village event that they'd accidentally intruded on. Music, distorted by muggle speakers, blared out loudly over the small cottages that were probably used to tranquillity.

"Do you have any better suggestions?" Harry asked, his wand back inside his jacket as he leisurely strolled up the street towards the house that could hold a potential serial killer.

 _Not being here_ , ranked pretty highly at the top of Daphne's list but she didn't even bother saying it. She knew what the answer would be. There was nothing they could do, no back-up they could call and she knew that there was no way Harry would let this go, not now, and if she was honest with herself then she knew that there wasn't any way she could either. That didn't make it any easier though.

"Alright, no," Daphne admitted stubbornly, "you sure it's her?"

"Zoe Baldwin left due to 'personal reasons', I would hazard a guess that those reasons were not wanting to face a world without her friendin it. People have a habit of being alarmingly sentimental and before you suggest it, no I do not think that she was attempting to hide her tracks. It is far too suspicious and exactly why she thoroughly questioned by the original investigation." Harry told Daphne coming to a halt outside a small cottage. To look at it Daphne would never have guessed it would be home to a murderer of any kind, let alone the kind they were chasing.

"Clark Fleming, whilst spending the most time with Riley, I doubt would have the necessary connections to continue on after Diana Riley's murder," Harry continued, "he is a muggleborn, has zero connection to anybody of any influence and judging from his work file and the interviews conducted by the aurors, I believe of below average intelligence."

"Which leaves us with Hayley McAlister," Daphne said, a small bubble of trepidation forming in the pit of her stomach.

"Half-blood, daughter of Irvine and Patricia McAlister," Harry intoned from memory. "It's worth noting that Patricia McAlister was a Nott before she married, not an ideal match for a sister of a Death Eater. Irvine is also a rather talented scholar, he works at Oxford and is currently studying the ways to prevent colony collapse within beehives."

"And that's important because?"

"It gives us some bearing on her upbringing," Harry explained, "she had highly intelligent parents, but (?)was shunned from a magical society where she would feel she belongs but can never truly fit in. I don't doubt that her parents wished better for her than working in a shop too. Can you imagine what the introduction of a poor and frankly unpleasant manager would do to that particular cocktail?"

"Nothing good."

"Exactly, though it is entirely possible that I could be wrong. It has, on occasion, been known to happen."

"Do you think you are this time?"

"No, I just thought it was worth establishing. Might be rather embarrassing if I didn't."

Daphne rolled her eyes and let herself smirk, she had the feeling he was trying to make her laugh. So much for being an inhuman freak like everyone thought.

They approached the door together, Harry kept his hands by his sides, one finger tapping impatiently on his leg but other than that he was completely still. The literal embodiment of the calm before the storm.

"Shouldn't we knock?" Daphne asked after a moment.

"No need, there's plenty wards around this place, she knows we're here. Although I should suggest that you do not go near your wand until we're inside," he pointed to a small, barely perceptible marking above the doorframe, hidden amongst the old cracks. "If she wasn't so repellent I'd be impressed. It is exceptionally difficult to have wards weaponised. Most of them are rather passive."

"What does that one do?"

"If I had to speculate I would it's a mild bone-breaker, nothing too serious. Just a limb."

"I quite like my limbs as they are."

"Then wands away," Harry muttered. As he did so there was a faint click and the door was opened.

"Come in," called a commanding voice from inside the house. Any calmness Daphne had been feeling evaporated. _Talk about creepy_. She looked at Harry, his face was a mask of concentration as his eyes flicked around the room before them. Then he nodded and led the way into the house.

It was lavish, there was no other word for it. Despite the rustic exterior the inside was beautiful, the walls were all white and cream, contrasting with the various black framed pictures on the wall. There were none of her family, instead they were predominantly landscapes, gorgeous open-fields, twinkling cities, and busy city scene where the people hustled and bustled about their day. All the tables were made of glass, elegant and painfully muggle. Nothing like this would ever be seen in an old pureblood mansion. They were rich in tradition and often mahogany, not this place though.

The voice came from the first room they came to, it was huge. A desk sat at the end, overseeing the bay window that looked out onto the street. Next to it was a telescope, pointing up into the night sky. The rest of the room was sparse and rather bare; comfortable sofas and glass coffee tables were dotted about in a pleasing arrangement. Lounging across one sat a woman. Her hair was dark, her lipstick classy and of the deepest red. In her hand she held a large glass of wine and a thin, black wand. She gave it a flick and the door behind them swung shut, a twisted smile pulled at her lips.

"Harry Potter," she breathed, setting down the glass. Blue eyes met green. While Harry's were taking in the scene before him, hers practically sparkled. "I've heard so much about you. The-Boy-Who-Lived here at my little home. I'm honoured."

"You really shouldn't be," Harry told her, he glanced at the desk, taking in the various papers that were stacked neatly on it.

"And you have a little friend," the woman, who Daphne could only assume was Hayley McAlister, noted. "Who are you, little friend?"

"My name's Daphne."

"Pleasure, or not, I'd say it was a pleasure to meet you, but (?) it really rather depends on why you're both here?"

"Diana Riley," Harry said as he moved to take the seat opposite her. Daphne followed suit, although she couldn't help but feel unnerved. Perhaps she was just projecting what they thought was true about Hayley onto her, but that didn't stop Daphne wanting nothing more than to reach for her wand.

"She died, decades ago. It was sad. I was sad. Why do you ask?"

"Because she didn't just die, did she? She was killed. We want to know why."

"I think you're a little late to the party," Hayley said, swinging her legs off the sofa letting her bare feet mould into the carpet. "But you can be forgiven, I suppose, you weren't even born. Let me save you a waste of evening, though. I have no idea who killed her or why. I was just as surprised as everyone else."

"Yes, I know that's what you said when they interviewed you the first time."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I believe you're lying," Harry told her _. So much for subtlety_.

"My, that is a rather bold claim," Hayley noted, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that Harry had essentially accused of her hiding the truth or being a killer. "So you think I know the killer, then?"

"If you want to call it that."

"How do you reach that conclusion?"

"Simple. It's you."

Daphne thought her heart had stopped.

"Me?" Hayley asked, not shocked even one bit. Those red lips were smiling, her eyes still dancing. This was a game.

"Don't pretend, I know what you are."

"Then why give me the curtesy of conversation? If you really believe me to be a killer why not come with all your auror friends? Because you can't, can you? You need me to confess, or find some piece of evidence I may have left lying around for anyone to find."

"So you admit it?"

"I admit no such thing, I speak only hypotheticals, as you well know. If you were a real auror you would ask me if I hated her, I didn't. She was a good woman, kind. But they already did that and they found no motive, nothing."

"They never asked about her husband, Jacob. I've read the interview, he wasn't mentioned. You despised him; the way he treated you, the way he and men like him have always treated you. So you punished him, but not by killing him, that would be too simple. You took the thing he cared about, plucked it from his grasp and watched him wither without her."

"Death is an end," Hayley said, "an end to everything."

"Even guilt, hardly a punishment really."

Hayley smiled, a humourless, insincere and twisted smirk. "Classic interrogation technique, create trust, understanding, a connection which will make the interviewee open up in a previously unestablished way. My uncle was a Death Eater, he tortured hundreds of people for information and used all sorts of unorthodox methods. When the Dark Lord came, do you think my muggle-loving mother was safe?"

"He tortured you." Daphne said, she couldn't help herself. She'd heard the stories, of course. You only had to look at Malfoy's life to see what would happen with a megalomaniac in the family. Like everyone else though, Daphne just pushed them to the back of her mind. Being confronted with the harsh reality of it made her feel sick.

"Mercilessly," Hayley breathed, "but I kept my silence. I protected my father. Do you really think that I will tell you anything I don't want to?"

"Absolutely nothing," Harry's tone was hard, resigned. He knew there was nothing he could do. She had all but admitted it, it only took one look to see the crazy on her.

"You're all the same, I've met countless men like you. You're all so arrogant, you thought I'd just roll over."

"I can assure you, you've never met anyone like me."

"Oh, but I have. Selfish, entitled, high opinion of yourself. I could go on, but I really see no point. Now, if that is all, Mister Potter. I have an evening to return to."

"Why work there?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Riley's. Why would you work there, you're clearly intelligent."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment," Harry bit back, "but my question still stands. You clearly have different job now, you followed in your father's footsteps? I can tell by the slight mark on your wrist that you work at a desk all day, using a computer. On top of that the papers on your desk are not your own. Several types of handwriting. Marking. You're an academic."

"I'm a historian, it's fascinating, seeing all those muggles work without magic and the lies they tell themselves when we've intervened. They chalk an entire nation's anti-Semitism down to charisma, did you know that?" She took a sip from her wine glass, sloshing the liquid around after she had done so, blue eyes staring into it. "To answer your question, I needed the money. My father was in hiding, my mother had snapped from the strain. My father told me that I wasting my time trying to live with magic, said it was the worst thing he'd ever done, falling in love with my mother."

"Why not just leave?"

"I am no coward. Besides, after the Dark Lord's defeat I was welcomed back with open arms. How could we be so blind? They'd say. We shouldn't have done it. Like it wasn't their choice. They had a choice."

"Just like you."

"Just like me," Hayley smiled, "now, Mister Potter. I really must insist that you leave. Unless you have any other sordid allegations to throw at me?"

"No, I think we're done."

"Yes, you are."

"Well that was… intense," Daphne said when they had retreated to the safety of the street outside. Harry looked furious, he ran a hand through his already messy hair as he strode away, meaning that Daphne had to practically jog to keep up. "She did it."

"Yes."

"And we can't prove it."

"No," Harry snapped, "I didn't I realise you were here to state the obvious."

It took all Daphne had not to retort, she knew it was just Harry being Harry but that didn't make him any easier to deal with. It was like trying to console a spoilt child. "So, what's the plan?"

"I don't know, I need to think. There's nothing, of course. It was decades ago. Even she had hung onto it she wouldn't be stupid enough to keep it now. Even if she was, she will rid herself of it now. That's not to say it wouldn't be easy to fabricate our evidence."

"Please tell you're joking."

"Do you really think I would stoop that low?" Harry asked bitterly. "I can prove she did this, even if the proof we need might be being destroyed as we speak. I just need to think. Need to not be here. Go home."

"What?"

"Go home," Harry repeated, "I need to be alone. There's nothing you can do, the only thing we had on our side was the element of surprise and we've wasted it. Everything we have is either circumstantial or speculation. We need more than we _know_ she did it, that's hardly the basis of a strong conviction. And even if it was we need more if we are to free Joseph Wedgewood."

He sighed, Daphne had never seen him like this. Outsmarted. Before she could say anything though, any kind word or protest, Harry had already turned on the spot and vanished. She stared at the spot where he should've been standing.

"Bye then," she said to no-one. _So much for being valuable_. She should've known better. This had just been a fun little game but now it was over.

Daphne wasn't sure how long she was walking the streets for. The hopes that she had for whatever it was she had with Harry seemed to be crashing down around her and just as she'd thought she was more than a walking set of ears, an audience for him to show off at. She tried to convince herself that she was taking it too personally, that he hadn't meant anything by it, but it was a losing battle. She liked to think that she was confident, but years of being ignored by the other healers had pretty much derailed that. This had been the break she'd needed.

As the summer night finally turned towards darkness, Daphne became painfully aware that it was time to head home. After a quick spot of apparition Daphne found herself at her front door. She drew her wand, tapped it and let herself in. She felt her stomach drop as she saw him. Alex. She'd forgotten about Alex.

"Where the hell have you been?" She'd barely even made it through the front door.

"I could ask you the same thing," Daphne retorted, shrugging off her robe and hanging it up on one of the pegs by the door. "Or did you forget we had plans tonight?"

"I – I got held up, but when I'd got there you were gone."

"Shocker," same old story, same old excuses. "What was it this time? Work?"

"Yeah, you know what they're like, running us into the ground at the moment."

"You could've just told them you had plans," Daphne pointed out as she crossed to the small kitchen that stood aside from the living room, forcing Alex to follow her. She was too tired to use magic and so instead started opening cupboards looking for a glass.

"I did," Alex tried, "what, do you think I'd want to miss this?"

"Feels like it these days," Daphne muttered under her breath as she began filling her glass with water. It felt cool against her skin as she held it under the tap. It wasn't until she stopped, became completely still that she realised she had a headache coming on. Her eyes were heavy, tired.

"What was that?"

"I said, 'it feels like it these days'. Face it Alex, when was the last time we really spent any time together? It's been months. There's always something, every time and you swan in thinking that I'm just going to wait around for you – like it's okay."

"It's not just me, you know, when the last time you made an effort? All I've heard from you lately is about all this time you've spending with Harry Potter. Why should I try and get back? You never switch off from all that crap you do with him!"

"Because helping solve murders is crap, yeah? And you were gone long before I started working with Harry."

"Oh you work with him now, do you? I thought you were only helping. That where you were then, off with that prick? Bet you didn't even wait did you? Couldn't stop yourself from fucking off somewhere with him!"

Alex's face had gone red and sneer curled at his lips. Daphne had never seem so… pathetic. That's what it was, pathetic.

"Not that it matters, but yeah, I did wait. If I'd known you'd be such a jealous idiot then maybe I wouldn't have bothered."

"You think I'm jealous of him?"

"It'd explain why you're being such a dick about it. Well I'm sorry, Alex. You're right. How dare I spend time with someone, you know somebody I like, someone whose company I enjoy, I can't believe I'd be so selfish. And the fact he just happens to be a man makes it so much worse doesn't it? I'm sorry that I didn't think about your precious male ego."

Daphne set down her untouched glass and closed the space between them, she might be smaller than Alex, but she could feel him cowering under gaze. She was sick of his shit. Sick of feeling like she couldn't bring up Harry. Sick of having to watch what she said in case it might make him feel bad.

"I'd never cheat on you. Never. The fact you feel so threatened by Harry is just… insulting. Don't you trust me?"

"Yes, of course, I never said -"

"Then what's this about? If you trust me so much why don't you like me being with him?"

"Because…" he faltered, stammering and failing to start. He tried a smile, but met got nothing but a stony glare.

"What?" Daphne demanded.

"Because I… it's not just him, it's all of it. We've been together ages and I get you need to be at work and that it keeps you busy and stuff, but Daph since you've been a Healer, face it we've barely seen each other. Even when we did you were always conked out."

"I finished training nearly two years ago and you're telling me you're not happy now?"

"I just tried to ignore it, like I thought maybe it would get better and then when it didn't I… I've been meaning to tell you for a while, I swear."

Daphne just stared. She couldn't do anything else. The implication of what he'd said hit her like a bludger. After all the time he'd spent complaining about Harry, about how they never saw each other, he'd been off…

"How long?" Daphne heard herself ask, she didn't remember saying it. It was like watching someone else talk through her mouth. She felt odd, distanced from it all.

"I don't know, a few months? I never meant for it to happen, I just, I –"

Daphne wanted to swear, wanted to curse him, break every bone in his body. The worst part was she knew how. She'd had to deal with so many 'accidents' like this. Tempers flared and magic was just a fingertip away. No-one would blame her. All of the training her dad had given her, all the curses and jinxes were front and centre in her mind. It would just be a case of choosing, but she remained still.

He wasn't worth it. Whatever excuse he wanted to give, and she had an idea that it would be to blame her for not seeing him as much as he wanted, it wasn't good enough. He wasn't worth her time.

"Get out. I've got work tomorrow, your stuff won't be here by the time I'm home."

She didn't even let him say anything before she turned away and headed for the bedroom door, slamming it behind her. For his credit, he didn't follow her, didn't try and persuade her that she was being unfair or cruel. He just left. Daphne didn't let herself cry until she'd heard the door shut behind him. That was when the tears came, when the questions and doubts about herself tore through her mind. Why? Why did _she_ deserve this? What had _she_ done? They didn't stop. No matter how much she tried to persuade herself it wasn't her fault, because that's what he'd been about to say, wasn't it? That it was her fault.

That was what cheats never thought about, what it would do to the other person.

Hours stretched into what felt like days as Daphne lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She could get up, read a book, distract herself somehow but she didn't want to. She didn't want to do anything, couldn't do anything but lie there.

Her failed attempts to find slumber were interrupted by the far off sound of a door opening. Her front door. He was back. Of course he was. Snivelling idiot probably thought he could make it up to her. Daphne reached for her wand. She mightn't have wanted to jinx him before but she damn well would now. She swung herself out of bed, realising for the first time that she hadn't even gotten changed.

Before she could reach the bedroom door it swung back to reveal who was on the other side. Daphne froze.

"Daphne, fancy seeing you here," said the playful voice of Hayley McAlister.


	10. Fight or Flight?

Chapter Ten: Fight or Flight?

Auror Charles Hopkins liked the occasional quiet day; days when people decided it would be a good idea not to kill each other or risk the cover of the entire wizarding world. They were nice, they gave him a small respite from the gruelling hours that his work demanded of him. Today, however, was not one of those days. He'd arrived early, clasping his coffee and whistling merrily. He'd had a good feeling. How wrong he'd been. It had been all of five minutes before he'd been called from his desk. Something about a possible domestic violence case. He'd sighed at that. That meant people. And tears. He couldn't stand tears.

His mood in tatters and his day already spiralling out of his control, Hopkins had apparated to the address he'd been given. A team was already there. They nodded to him as they went about their work. The crime-scene, for it could no longer be called someone's home, was an absolute mess. Splinters of what Hopkins could only imagine had been a chair were littered across the carpet as Hopkins picked his way inside. Books had been thrown from their cases and a coffee table had been turned upside down. It took the aged auror a moment to realise that there was a small trail of blood leading towards the bedroom.

He swore under his breath, this was not going to be pretty.

"What's the situation, Abbott?" Hopkins asked when the eager young auror had stopped casting the compulsory charms to check for evidence of dark magic.

"We have two distinct magical signatures, sir," Abbott said quickly, withdrawing a small notebook from her pocket and opening it up. "We're not sure on one of them, but the other one we've found all over so we reckon it belongs to the homeowner, Miss Daphne Greengrass. That's, erm, why we called you in, sir."

"She's not dead is she?"

"No, sir, not as far we can tell."

"Her father know yet?"

"Sir?"

"He was an auror, good man, want to keep him out of this as much as we can. So this is to stay in house, understand? No-one finds out about it."

"Sir."

Hopkins had managed to pick a clear path to the bedroom. There were more aurors in there, bagging up evidence. The bed was a tangle of sheets and the window facing out onto the street below had been broken. Hopkins could see the blood from where he stood in the doorway, so that at least explained the trail.

"Fetch me Potter, would you?"

"Sir?" She replied. Left unsaid was 'Why? Sir, he's a bloody insulting git and I can't stand him'. Abbott may not like Potter but she had more sense than to say it to Hopkins face. Openly, at least.

"I know you don't like him Abbott, but he dragged Greengrass to Azkaban yesterday. If she's not here and the place looks like this then I'd bet it's got something to do with him. Now go, I'll take over from here."

"Sir," Abbott nodded and then vanished. Hopkins sighed and went through the usual procedure, dictating what he found to the evidence book as he picked through the flat. He was summing up the evidence that they'd found in her room when Potter appeared. He looked like he hadn't slept for days and smelt like it too.

"Leave us," Hopkins said to the aurors that were in the bedroom with him. They barely hesitated before picking up their things and heading out, shutting to the door behind them. The quill stood still on the parchment, ready to dictate but Hopkins quickly removed it. There were some conversations that had to stay private.

"Care to explain all this? And I don't mean your usual trick, why was she attacked like this?"

Hopkins vaguely expected some back-handed compliment about his intelligence, or a flat out refusal to give him details. What he didn't expect was the truth.

"Hayley McAlister," Harry answered, never looking away from the window. "We interviewed her yesterday regarding the murder of Diana Riley and Rebecca Wedgewood, among others. We believe her to be a serial killer."

"I told you to drop that."

"Had I and we would be no closer from freeing an innocent man from mental torture."

"Had you and your friend, or whatever the hell you want to call her, wouldn't have been attacked or missing. It's looking like she managed to get out from what we can tell, so you might get lucky this time. But you're going to tell me everything that's happened and then you're going to assist this investigation with complete auror supervision."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I put you in a cell for twenty-four hours. I'm thinking hold you on 'suspicion of preventing an auror during the course of their duties.' That should do it. I won't lie, we do a better job with you, but I'm not letting you have free reign, not this time. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Harry said stiffly. It was clear that he didn't want to be doing any of this, but Hopkins could see under the self-righteous arrogance that Harry knew he'd made a mistake. A mistake that might cost that girl her life.

"Good, now I'm going to fetch Auror Abbott and she's going to take your statement and then we're going to find Miss Greengrass. For your sake I hope we find her in one piece."

"As do I," Harry said sincerely as Hopkins left the room. Perhaps they really were friends, after all. That was a mystery for later, all Hopkins wanted to solve at that moment was her disappearance. Explaining how anyone like Harry had friends could be dealt with later. First, they had a lost woman to find.

oOo

 _Five hours earlier…_

"You!" Daphne Greengrass breathed as she stared in the murderous eyes of Hayley McAlister. Her wand was pointed directly at Daphne's chest.

"You were expecting someone else?" McAlister never lost that small smirk as she made her way slowly and deliberately towards Daphne, like a stalking predator about to devour its prey. "I must say that I had hoped you would be asleep. It's much easier that way."

"Sorry to disappoint."

McAlister laughed. "Oh, you haven't. Perhaps inconvenienced is a better word, but no matter. You will die all the same. Pity, I rather liked you."

"You know you don't _have_ to kill me, right? That's something you can do."

"If only it were that simple, I'm afraid your friend rather sealed your fate. I wonder what he'll be like. All the others, they had other people; friends they could lean on, but from what I hear about Potter you're the only one. Will it destroy him? When he finds you all broken and empty."

"Is that why you do it? To make all those people suffer?" Daphne asked, slowly edging herself sideways, away from her bed. Her own wand shook slightly in her hand but she tried to ignore the tremor. If she was going to get out of this she had to control it. Fight it.

"It does have a certain appeal. I did toy with the idea of killing them, but what good would that do? They'd just be dead and everyone dies eventually. It is one of the few things we can be certain of. Death is no punishment, if anything it is freedom from pain and that is far from what they deserved. Men, like your friend, they don't know what it is they do, how their actions can hurt people. They are arrogant and selfish and I promise you that, had I killed them, they would not be missed. You, however, will be."

"You're insane."

"You're only just getting that now? My, my, and I thought you were supposed to be clever."

"This isn't going to stop him, you know?"

"Oh, I'm well aware of that. It's all going to be so much fun, just a pity that you won't be here to see it."

Daphne was already moving before McAlister had even raised her wand and said that tell-tale curse. Sickly green light suddenly filled the room and took a chunk out of the wall as Daphne crashed into the desk that looked out of the window. There was a loud smashing noise, the tinkling of glass and someone screaming. It took a moment for Daphne to realise that it was her screams that were being swept away on the night air.

Shards of glass had shredded themselves into her wrist. Blood gushed and as the seconds expanded in front of Daphne, she knew that she had to move. Staying still was a bad idea. Still was being an easy target, still was where death was and she'd be damned if she was going to die at the hands of a lunatic.

Desperately, Daphne tore herself free and shot a stunner at McAlister, she didn't expect it to hit but it was enough of a distraction to buy her some time. She needed to get out, but McAlister was between Daphne and the door. Daphne sent a bludgeoning hex this time, keeping to silent magic in a desperate bid to stay ahead, but this too was batted away with ease and took a hefty slice out of the ceiling.

Daphne ducked and rolled as the killing curse flew at her again, but instead of responding with a jinx of her own she sent a summoning charm at the door. The hinges, like most things in the apartment, had been put on with magic and so clung to the door for dear life; but the door swung open and slammed into McAlister. There was a startled cry.

" _Incarcerous_!" Daphne yelled quickly, before forcing her way past McAlister. She didn't wait to see if the ropes had caught, but even if they had McAlister was too clever to let herself be caught be a simple binding charm. It gave Daphne time though, time enough to sprint towards her door and throw everything she had at McAlister. Literally. As soon as the woman appeared from Daphne's room she assaulted by books, chairs and even Daphne's coffee table. It was enough to block the killing curse which Daphne knew would be coming her way. It shattered the coffee table, sending it into a thousand tiny pieces just as Daphne slammed the door shut behind her.

She didn't let herself catch her breath, there was no time. McAlister wasn't going to stop, she was never going to stop. Daphne was panicking too much to apparate and so she ran door the corridor towards the stairs. Instead of going down Daphne went up, casting a disillusionment charm on herself as she went and clinging to the shadow of the wall. There was no point running forever. She needed to get out and the only way to do that was to lose McAlister.

Not even a second later Daphne watched as McAlister appeared from her apartment. Her hair was nowhere near as neat as it had been before and her eyes were narrowed. Gone was the calm and playful persona, here was the ruthless killer for all to see. She prowled down the corridor, slow and purposeful.

Daphne closed her eyes, trying desperately to control her breathing and her heart as it attempted to hammer its why out of her chest. _Calm, just calm down_. It's all she had to do. Her wand felt heavy in her grasp. She wished she could be like her father, hell, anyone who could apparate without having a run-up would be a good choice. The sound of footsteps were getting closer. Daphne desperately tried to think of the first place that popped into her mind. Somewhere safe, somewhere she could think and deal with agonising pain in her arm.

She went to turn, ready to leave this God-awful nightmare, when suddenly, barely an inch away: "Found you."

oOo

"So let me get this straight," Hopkins said exasperatedly after having listened patiently, or as patiently as he could, to Harry tell his story. "You're saying that you thought it'd be a good idea to go into the house of a psychopathic killer, without back-up or hard evidence?"

"I had good reason -"

"You had no such thing," Hopkins snapped, "you just wanted to show off to your friend. Let me ask you something, where's your friend now?"

Harry stayed silent, not looking at anyone. Abbott, who had been watching over the quill as it took notes and taking down her own details for later, glared at him with disdain. For once Hopkins couldn't blame her. He had a mind to tell Harry to get out of his sight, but there was a woman's life on the line and no matter how much he explained it to them Harry still knew this case better than anyone.

"Alright, I'm going to go talk to this Hayley McAlister after we're done here. Abbott, get started on the door to door, take Jones with you. If anybody has heard anything I want to know about it. Potter," Harry's eyes flicked to him, "you're with me 'til I tell you otherwise."

They both nodded and as if a switch had been flicked inside him, Harry went from completely immobile to hurriedly investigating the scene. He drew his wand and began examining the various pieces of broken furniture before. Ghostly shells appeared with a flick of his wand, most of them were a light blue in colour, another was orange and led into the bedroom, and the final was black. It writhed against the wood that was trapped against.

"She's not dead," Harry said, "at least, she wasn't killed here."

"We figured," Hopkins told him. All magic left traces, it was impossible not to. Dark magic like the killing curse, even more so. There was a slight difference when it had found its mark. It was stiller, at peace, like the corpse.

Harry didn't even register what Hopkins had said and instead hunkered down nearer the door, then his eyes moved to the door. Without a word he swiftly moved away, abruptly shoving past Abbott as she made her way to the door to door.

"Hey!"

Harry ignored her, flicking his wand and summoning the same ghostly shells as before. There were more of this time, they criss-crossed and intertwined. The aurors had cast so many different spells when they arrived that it was impossible to tell their signatures apart from Daphne's and, if Harry was to be believed, McAlister's. This thought too seemed to cross Harry's mind as he hastily banished them, but he stalked down the corridor nonetheless, eyes on the thin black carpet.

He came to a stop at the stairs, first glancing down and then heading up a couple of steps before coming to rest in the corner.

"Here," he said pointing to the carpet. "It's blood, none of your men saw it because they were too busy looking for magical traces and traipsing it deeper into the carpet. It stops here."

"So what does that mean? McAlister took her?"

"No, murder is that woman's obsession. She thrives off pain and right now, mine in particular. Do you really think that she would waste the opportunity to flaunt what she had done?" Hopkins said nothing. "Neither do I, so that must mean that Daphne apparated. I'd try and trace it but there are too many other signatures here to get a clear enough reading."

"But she's safe?"

"As safe someone can be when they've splinched themselves." Harry said offhandedly. "Nothing too serious, if I had to guess I'd say a finger. McAlister must have taken it, anything else would have left a significant enough trace even you lot could find."

"You seem quite calm about all this," Hopkins noted as Harry got back to his full height. He almost hadn't said anything but he couldn't help himself. This was beyond weird. Hopkins doubted if he could have been around all this if it was his friend, or even if he wouldn't consider dealing with it himself. Yet here Harry was, dealing with it like normal.

"Do I? Good."

"Good?" Hopkins echoed incredulously. "Your friend's out there in Merlin knows what state and it's 'good' that you don't give a damn?"

"No, it's good that you can't tell." Harry said stiffly before holding out his hand to Hopkins. "Now, I believe we have a suspect to talk to."

Warily, Hopkins took the extended hand. He couldn't find anything to say. Over the years he'd seen Harry be arrogant, cool, snide, a whole host of unpleasantness, but never once had he cared enough to try and hide the fact that he did. For McAlister's sake, Hopkins hoped that she hadn't killed Daphne, because if she had then Hopkins knew he would never even have a chance at finding McAlister's corpse.

oOo

Even though her landing was soft, Daphne screamed as she hit the floor. She tried to move, put some pressure on her uninjured arm but as soon as she tried another howl of pain tore through her. Her eyes were still closed and she didn't dare to look down. Voices, far off and muffled, tried to force their way to the forefront of Daphne's mind. The words were jarring and harsh as they got nearer and nearer. Then there were hands on Daphne. She tried to fight them, a vision of Hayley McAlister twisted smile swimming in her mind's eye, but her arms were weak.

"Whoa, Daph, calm down!" a familiar voice shouted. "It's me, Tracey. What the hell happened to you?"

"Tracey?"

"Last time I checked," Tracey Davis said, forcing a smile into her voice and, as Daphne opened her eyes, onto her face too. Behind her stood a tall man, his eyes were wide and his face was filled with concern. It took Daphne a moment to realise that it was Nathan, Tracey's fiancée.

"Thank God," Daphne breathed, letting herself fall into her friend's open arms. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you."

"I'll go get your wand," Nathan said, speaking for the first time. Tracey shot him a grateful smile.

"Wand? Why do you need your wand?"

"Just gonna help fix you up, that's all. You've kinda messed up your wrist a bit, and…"

"What?"

"You splinched yourself, when you came here. It's not too bad, just a finger."

Daphne dared to look down. Her left hand, the one that she'd sliced through the window, was covered in gashes and various sizes of glass were embedded in her wrist, jutting out at odd angles. It was her right hand where the real problem lay. Instead five fingers, like almost everybody else on the planet, Daphne could only see four. A bloody stump was all that remained of her little finger. Daphne stared. She'd seen it before on other people loads of times, but never on her own hand. She was too stunned to even want to be sick.

"But you can tell me what to do, right?" Tracey ploughed on. "Then we can fix this. I mean, I've not got many potions in or anything, but that's okay, right?"

"Yeah. Fine. Whatever."

"Or we could just patch it up, go to St. Mungo's, they could fix it properly."

"No!" That was the last place she wanted to go. A paranoid thought that McAlister would assume that was where to look next had rapidly developed and made home in the back of Daphne's mind as soon as splinching had been mentioned.

"No? Why not? Daph, what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything."

"Oh yeah, sure, says the nine-fingered girl."

"Trace," Nathan said soothingly as he re-entered whatever room Daphne had apparated herself into, she'd been too blinded by pain to pay attention. Wherever it was, the carpet was soft. Daphne was mildly aware of Tracey snatching her wand from Nathan. The world was starting to spin.

"I bet it was Potter," Daphne heard Tracey say above her.

"Not now, Trace."

"But you remember what his godfather said."

"Not now," Nathan said firmly.

"Fine!" Tracey snapped, "Daph, you with me?" Daphne made a strange noise in an attempt to form words. The pain was excruciating and the realisation that she had lost a finger was starting to hit her. "If you wanna stay here, you've got to help me fix this."

"Okay," Daphne nodded, blinking rapidly as she tried to focus. "I need something, some kind of painkiller, whatever you have. Then you're going to want to body-bind me."

"Why?"

"Because this is going to hurt."

oOo

The house was normal. That was the first thing Hopkins noticed. The second was that Hayley McAlister seemed just as normal. She'd ushered them in, offered them tea and then disappeared to make drinks. The third thing was that, if Harry was right, then it was one hell of a pretence. Her smile was warm as she re-entered the room, two cups of piping hot tea levitating in front of her, they came to rest on the coffee table between the two sofas.

"Are you sure I can't get you anything, Mr. Potter?"

"No."

"Not even a water?"

"May I see your wand?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Auror Hopkins here is going to go through some preamble, then ask to see it so as we can check it against a magical signature we found earlier. I just wondered if I could see it now and save us all some time."

McAlister didn't even blink. "Certainly." The wand that she had been using to make the tea hover was presented to Harry. "Now may I ask what this is about?"

Harry snorted.

"We found a woman's home broken into this morning, a Miss Daphne Greengrass. Your name came up in connection with hers and we were hoping you could answer a few questions."

"I'm sorry but until last night I had never met Miss Greengrass, so I'm really rather unsure as to what help I can be."

"Maybe start with how you met?"

"Oh but I'm sure you already know."

"I'd like to hear it in your words." It was no lie.

"Very well, Miss Greengrass and your… companion paid me a visit last night. They accused me of murdering my former employer, along with several other men. I, of course, denied all knowledge of such events taking place. They then left and I believe had an argument of some kind."

"Then what did you do?"

"I read a book, made myself some tea and then went to bed."

"Can anyone vouch for that?"

"I live alone, Auror Hopkins."

"That means no," Harry said in a stage whisper, Hopkins had to resist the urge to hit him. "This wand, it isn't yours."

"I'm sorry?"

"There are three small cuts just above the handle, can you see them?" Harry asked show the wand to them both, as if he were a con-man peddling wares out of a suitcase.

The wand was dark brown, there were several dents and chips from use but, just as Harry said, there were three distinct grooves a few centimetres above hilt. To her credit, McAlister barely even looked surprised. Had Hopkins not been on the job for the last few decades of his life then he may have missed the slightly rapid blink and the tightening of her left hand.

"Second-hand wand dealers use them to show how many previous owners there have been," Harry continued, "as you can clearly this has had three. The reason for purchasing these are varied, some legitimate, though in this instance I severely doubt that to be the case. You were going to present this wand in a rather brazen attempt to disguise your magical signature. Before you answer, please do remember that I actually saw your wand last night."

"That it is my wand."

"No, your wand is made of beech wood and has a dragon heart string. Interestingly, beech wood signifies that you are rather wise beyond your years, open-minded is another term."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"That an open-mind is far more likely to break the law than a narrow one," Harry's tone was smug, McAlister façade was chipping. "This wand is approximately an inch and a half too short, made of sycamore wood and, if I am not mistaken, has unicorn hair at its core. Now we could return to the Ministry, get the record for your wand and prove that it is not a match for this one."

"Or you could drop the act and show us your actual wand," Hopkins finished.

"I have shown you my wand," McAlister maintained, "if you gentlemen think I am lying, I suggest you prove it. To do that, of course, you would have to leave."

"In which time you would destroy any and all evidence that you were at my associate's home last night."

"Speaking of Miss Greengrass, may I ask what happened to her?"

Hopkins almost couldn't believe what he was hearing, it was like she wanted to be caught, and she would've been if they had any kind of proof. They almost had with her wand, but she knew they couldn't act on it. She was toying with them.

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"I wonder what that must feel like, knowing that your friend is out there and that you can't do anything to help her. She could be hurt, dying even and here you are. She could be miles away and you're unable to lift a finger to help. You must feel so… powerless."

Every word was uttered almost under her breath, the smile never left her face and her eyes sparkled as she looked at Harry. It was like watching a dragon toy with a sheep. Each word was a fork of fire or a swing of a deadly talon just shy of an artery. The kill was too quick, she revelled off pain.

"Not at all," Harry said with a shrug.

"You're lying."

"I'm not. You see, unlike you, I didn't close myself off because I cared too much and got hurt, I just don't care. I do what I do because I enjoy the puzzle of it all, discovering peoples' lies, even the ones they tell themselves."

"Liar." McAlister snapped, her voice was shaking her as her brain caught up with the realisation that her madness could have taken the life of an 'undeserving' victim.

"We can carry on playing this game, pretending that you didn't do this and that we aren't going to catch you; but the truth is that you're not special and we are going to. You're just like everyone else; you hate and you hate and that hatred burns more than anything else. Deep down I believe that you're still that girl that couldn't fit in, that got tortured by her mad uncle and you're determined to lash out. You can't just kill them though, that would be too simple because you know better than anyone that you need to be alive to suffer."

All the while Harry's tone remained perfectly still, there was no bitterness or judgement. It was almost as if he was delivering a boring lecture on a subject nobody cared about but hadn't bother to take off the exams. Hopkins was almost fooled, judging by the loss of her smirk McAlister was.

"I told you, you've never met anyone quite like me."

Nothing but silence greeted his words as McAlister stared at him, trying to figure out if he was right. When his speech elicited no response he gave a small humming noise and got to his feet. He crossed the room to a large bookcase, twirling the wand that McAlister had given him in his fingers as he did so.

"As I thought."

"What?" Hopkins asked, it was easier.

"I thought I saw it last night but I couldn't be sure, it's another one of her wards. Magically activated, it must lead to the room behind. This bookcase is about an inch out of place, if you'll note, nothing else in this room is."

With a final twirl of the wand Harry went to tap the bookcase, but before he hand chance McAlister was on her feet, another wand in her hand. Hopkins moved on instinct, aiming his own at her.

"I really wouldn't do that if I were you," McAlister ground out.

"I thought you said you'd given us your wand," his smugness had returned as a smirk pulled at the edge of his thin lips. "Hopkins, her wand if you please?"

McAlister turned slightly and it was all the distraction that Harry needed to send a bolt of red light at her chest. The shield she conjured was just in time. Hopkins sent a stunner that she batted away, before throwing a _Bombardia_ at him which he only managed to narrowly avoid before it blew up her desk. Papers rained down as flashes of light were hurled across the room. It was chaos and for a moment Hopkins wasn't sure which spell came from whose wand.

They were hampered by the fact they wanted to take her alive, whereas as she was out to kill them. Hopkins sent out stunner after stunner, doing his best to take her unawares as Harry distracted her by a hurling a chair across the room. Small birds exploded out of it mid-air and then flew at Harry, who banished them with ease. Hopkins followed his lead, sending the coffee table at McAlister, but she didn't even bother to banish but instead dodged. That was her mistake.

There was a crack and a scream of pain as Harry threw a bone-breaking curse into her path. Her wand clattered to the floor, Hopkins summoned it before she had chance to scramble for it. A moment later Harry had bound her with a thin silver rope, which tied itself around her wrists. With a flick of his wand she was held up her ankle, her hair fanning down and barely touching the floor.

"You okay?" Hopkins asked, putting away his wand and picking his way across the room which had fast become a warzone.

"You'll find all the evidence you need in there," Harry said eventually, pointing to the bookcase. "Though three counts of attempted murder, the assault of an auror and anything you can think of should do the trick. You should call Abbott, I'm sure she'll have a field day."

"You not stopping?" Hopkins had never known him turn down the chance to gloat, nor did he imagine that Harry would want to miss the chance of looking over a serial killer's treasure trove. For him it'd be like Christmas.

"No, there's somewhere I need to be."

Hopkins didn't need to ask who it was he was going to see. He'd seen that look on enough aurors' faces before. Guilt. He'd been lucky, they'd got there in time and Daphne had escaped but it could so easily have been different.

"You know where she'll be?"

"I have my suspicions. Now you have seven murders to solve and an Azkaban prisoner to free. She shouldn't be any trouble, I silenced her too."

Hopkins let him go, within ten minutes the house was teaming with aurors and within the next five hours Joseph Wedgewood would be shipped out of Azkaban a free man with a brain that even the best healer would have trouble mending. The auror office would issue an apology. It would be embarrassing, the Minister would want to see him personally but Hopkins didn't care. He'd helped Harry do right by Wedgewood, even the auror office could afford to be wrong to do the right thing. The only mystery left on Hopkins plate for that day was what would happen to Harry and Daphne and whether or not he'd be seeing one consultant at the next crime scene, or two.


	11. Daphne's Decision

Chapter Eleven: Daphne's Decision

The bed was warm and comfortable, sunlight crept into the room through thin curtains but Daphne kept her heavy eyes shut for as long as she could. Tracey had patched up her finger as best as she could, . Eventually Daphne would let herself be taken to St. Mungo's, just as soon as the face of Hayley McAlister vanished from the back of her mind.

The memories of exactly what had happened were fuzzy and distant. Every time that Daphne tried to pin them down they would scatter, only to form again darker and larger than life in her mind whenever she tried to sleep. She'd already had to promise Tracey that she was fine once, although given the look on her best friend's face, Daphne assumed that she'd been screaming. The only thing she did know was that both she and Harry had been idiots not to realise what McAlister would do. Looking back it was obvious. Hindsight was, as they said, a wonderful thing. Daphne was just glad she still had it.

Gingerly, Daphne adjusted her glass-shredded hand in the Murtlap essence that Nathan had fetched for her. There hadn't been many shops open, but somehow he'd managed to find some. The cuts were starting to heal and the pain had died away, becoming just another memory. That's what all this would be one day, Daphne kept telling herself. Just a memory.

Her introspection was interrupted when the door to Tracey's spare room was opened and the woman herself walked in. She was carrying a mug of tea and doing her best to make her small smile seem genuine.

"How're you feeling?" she asked once she'd set the mug down and taken a perch at the end of the bed.

"Okay. My hand still kind of hurts, but you did a good job."

"Yeah? I mean, you were guiding me the whole way so I can't really take all the credit."

"Still, thank you."

"It's okay, what're friends for, right?" Awkwardly it was Daphne's turn to try and force her grin to seem real. It didn't work. "What were you doing? What did you do for this to happen?"

Daphne didn't want to tell her, but even as she tried to think of a way to weasel out of admitting what she'd been wrapped up in, she knew she couldn't. Tracey had a right to know, just as she had a right to react the way that Daphne knew she would.

"You remember me telling you about that Wedgewood guy, the one that Harry thought they'd locked up on dodgy evidence. Well, it seems they did and we think we found out who really did it. So last night we confronted her. I mean, it was weird Trace, she practically admitted it but she knew we couldn't prove anything. She's insane and has this weird obsession with making people suffer by taking away what they love."

"And so she came after you." It wasn't a question, but Daphne nodded anyway.

"If it hadn't been for Alex I'd be dead," Daphne said, giving the realisation that she'd had in the hours she'd been left to heal a voice. "He's been seeing someone else. It's been going on a few months I think. I kicked him out, but I couldn't sleep and then when that bitch got there…"

She trailed off, the events were still too fresh, still made her heart race and fear cause bile to rise at the back of her throat.

"Wait, he – what?"

"Yeah. Apparently we've not been seeing enough of each other or something."

"And that means it's okay to go and shag someone else?" Tracey's voice shook with anger. "That fucking weasel. God, Daph, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Daphne said automatically, "well, no, it's not; but it will be. I will be. In a weird way I'm kind of glad he was, if he hadn't…"

"That nutter would've killed you," Tracey finished.

Daphne didn't say anything. There was nothing she could say. Tracey had been right all along. The worst part was, if she was really, truly honest with herself, then Daphne knew she would do it again. What she'd had with Harry the last few days had made her feel alive, and it was only because she'd started working with him that she had realised she'd been unhappy this entire time. There was nothing like a near-death experience to make someone question their life choices, Daphne had come to realise.

"I told you not to get involved with this guy, Daph. You're a healer for God's sake and you really could've been killed, like actually killed. This isn't a game anymore. I know it was a bit a fun, something different and you felt great and all that, but you could've died and it's his fault."

"No, it's not. Neither of us saw it coming."

"But he should know better, he's been doing this for years. I knew something like this would happen." She sighed, running a hand through her long hair. Her eyes, which had been so fixed on Daphne's, darted to the floor. "Look, I didn't want to tell you this, but a few weeks ago I went to see Sirius Black."

"You did what?" Daphne asked incredulously.

"I wanted to know more about Potter, ; I thought you might get hurt, I was worried about you and I think we can both agree I was right to be."

"So you thought it'd be a good idea to go talk to Black?"

"I was worried, okay? Is that such a crime? And before you say anything else, just listen, okay?" After a somewhat curt nod, Tracey continued, "I went there to try and find out if Black knew Potter, better than we did back then anyway. All I got was a vague impression of him, they don't talk and I kind of think Black blames himself. He tried to talk me into letting you make your own choice and support you, even though I might not agree. I tell you, when I left, I hated that. I wanted to ignore him and try and talk you out of it, but then I thought maybe he was right."

"You thought?" Daphne asked, noting the past tense.

"Yeah, but I don't know, after this, what am I supposed to think? I couldn't lose you and seeing you like that, it was… horrible. I don't know if I can just sit by and let you do that to yourself."

"I'm fine –"

"But you might not have been, not you, or Black, or Potter, can promise me you'll be safe."

"No," Daphne admitted. Her heart felt heavy but even as much as she wanted to look away, she kept her eyes firmly on Tracey. Had her friend told her this a week ago, or even days ago then Daphne knew she would've flown of the handle and with good reason. After the last few hours though, she could finally appreciate where it was Tracey had always been coming from. Even if she didn't agree.

"But I wouldn't change it."

"Seriously? After all this, you wanna carry on." There was a pause routed only in the hesitancy of confirmation. "Do you?"

"Yeah, I do." Daphne admitted. "Alex hated it, Merlin, mum's going to. I couldn't stand it if you did too."

Later Daphne would look back on this moment and try and pretend that she knew what was going to happen. Every time, she knew it was a lie. Never in her life had she been so unsure of the future. She had always made plans, lived with a strict sense of direction and ambition. But that had changed. She wanted more. Needed more. Only, she wasn't sure if she could do it without her best friend by her side.

"Why?"

"I don't know, you're right I could've died and that should be putting me off forever, but it isn't. What we do, it helps people. It matters. I don't think I can walk away from that. Harry's going to find her, he'll prove what she did and if he can't, well, I guess attempted murder is a good a start as any."

Tracey didn't say anything. She just nodded, looked away and sighed. Then she got to her feet and walked to the door. Time seemed to drag for a moment as Daphne was faced with the very real possibility of losing one of the few people she loved over a lack of understanding. She wanted to say something, but every thought vanished from her mind, fleeing like a killer at the sight of a Dementor.

But then the door opened and Tracey disappeared, for only a few seconds before coming back, a man by her side. His face was tight and his fingers twitched. His eyes darted around the room, taking in everything as they always did. He didn't smile, but he never did. He just stood there.

"I'll give you two some time," was all Tracey said before she left the room again.

He didn't sit down. He wasn't the type. Sitting meant staying and he hated awkward situations. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. When he eventually did it was with a kind of hesitancy that Daphne had never heard him use before.

"I – I wanted to say that I am sorry," Harry said, very slowly and deliberately, slightly falling over his words despite himself. "For this." He gestured to the bed, to the hand that had been wrapped in bandages. "I am, in no small part, at fault for placing you in a position in which you could harmed. You have my sincerest apologies. It was never my intention."

"I know."

"It seems _she,_ " disgust practically dripped from the word, "knows me better than I do," Harry confessed.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she goes after people because of their relationships; that sense of importance which people place on others. I did not think she would attack, not because you are unimportant but because I did not realise it was so clear." He nodded nervously, a slight tick. This was hard for him. "Our work, what we have accomplished over the last few weeks has been… good. You, I believe, will become an excellent investigator and my process is… improved, by your company."

"Harry -" He held up a hand.

"But I would understand if you feel that you cannot carry on." He continued, she let him, he needed to say it. "I am aware of Miss Davis' feelings towards me, and they are well founded."

"I don't care," Daphne said quickly, unable to stop herself. "Truth is, I don't want to stop. You're right, we're good together. Most of the time."

"I am sorry for that also," their little spat after he'd lost his temper at McAlister. Had he not then maybe Daphne would have gone home with him. Maybe she wouldn't. It wasn't worth thinking about. Change wasn't always good.

"You should be, if we're going to keep doing this you can't do that, okay? You can't just use me when you want and then ditch me. That's not how this works."

He nodded.

"Did you catch her?" Daphne asked eventually.

"Yes, Hopkins has her custody. Her trophies have been found, if estimations are correct Joseph Wedgewood should be free by the morning.

"Good, that's really good. Reckon he'll be okay?"

"There are several services currently designed to assist in a post-Azkaban adjustment. I will ensure he is given the best treatment." Harry said, his eyes flicking again to Daphne's injured hand. "On the topic of treatment, I suggest you get that seen to."

"Tracey did a good job."

"She is no healer," Harry noted.

 _Neither am I,_ was what Daphne wanted to say. It was something she was ready to admit to herself. Her job, the one she had always dreamed of and had failed to meet her hopes, wasn't for her. Not anymore. She was going to have to resign. She didn't even know how. She'd never had to resign from anything before in her life. Did people write letters? How did that conversation even go? It was always going to be one sided disappointment, and Daphne hated being a disappointment – it was why she'd been a Slytherin all those years ago. It was expected. But was it right for her?

"I'll go soon, promise."

"Do," Harry said, a softness to his voice. "I had better return to Hopkins. I am sure he could do with some assistance, but I shall inform you when I require yours."

"Okay," Daphne smiled. She wasn't sure if she was imagining it, or if it was the worrying amount of different pain potions Tracey's fiancée had fed her, but Daphne was almost certain that she saw those lips want to do the same.

"You can do better, you know?" Harry said when he got the door.

"I'm sorry?"

"Than the philanderer."

"What?"

"Philanderer, it means –"

"I know what it means," Daphne snapped shortly, she couldn't help it, "you knew?"

"Yes, but whilst I may have known his true character I did not know how best to tell you. Apparently it is rather difficult to upset a friend."


	12. New Case, New Problems

Chapter Twelve: New Case, New Problem

 _The transition from associate to friend and partner wasn't what I had been expecting, though, I had never truly expected anything to come of our little discussions. It had seemed a dream, one which I had locked myself away from by becoming a healer. That was the path I had chosen, but Harry didn't see it that way; and after I resigned, neither did I._

Taken from Chapter Seven of The Chronicles of Harry Potter by Daphne Greengrass

oOo

"Again."

Daphne let out a frustrated sigh as she fumbled around looking for the pick, trying to feel where it had fallen with the tip of her fingers. Harry stood watching. It looked like he hadn't left the house for several days, and the truth was that he hadn't. He'd been wearing the same _Chudley Canons_ t-shirt for longer than Daphne cared to think about. It had been made by an entrepreneurial muggle-born who had seen a gap in the Quidditch market three years previously.

"Remind me again why I'm doing this?" The cool metal of the pick butted tantalisingly against her forefinger.

"You may not always have your wand at hand, as it were."

"And you find yourself in handcuffs a lot then?"

"More than you might think," Harry shrugged as Daphne finally managed to flick the pick back into her grasp, which annoyingly wasn't the hard part. The hard rim of the cuffs were starting to chaff against her wrists and the chair Harry had chosen wasn't exactly what she'd call comfortable. One of the legs was too short. The rocking was driving her insane

"When you called to say you had something important to show me, I thought it might be a case, not the finer points of muggle crime."

"Lock-picking is a skill, like any other, if you wish to place morality on it then that's your choice."

Mentally cursing, Daphne went back to doing what she'd been taught. It wasn't that she couldn't do it, it was that the damn thing was so bloody frustrating that she would lose her temper and drop it, making her more frustrated. So instead of focusing on what she was doing, she cast her gaze to the wall that Harry had decided to fill with art work.

"What's with the paintings?"

One of them, a thin wizard with a wispy beard, waved.

"Case I'm working on."

"And why is this the first I'm hearing about it?"

"Because _we_ haven't started working on it," Harry told her, before adding, "yet. This is a preliminary examination. An old colleague of mine has recently come into possession of an old Julia Lawson. Now, as I am sure you're aware, Lawson was famous for only linking a couple of her paintings. The majority, whilst magically enhanced, were limited to the inside of their frames."

"Didn't she think it ruined the integrity of what she painted, or something?"

"Precisely. Now, Lawson's works were all thought to have been discovered, some are held by private collectors, others by national galleries of various countries. My associate recently acquired what was believed to be a lost work, _The Lady of Paris_."

The way he said it suggested that this was meant to be some kind of big reveal, but Daphne, who hated art thanks to her mother's obsession with the stuff, had no idea what it meant.

" _The Lady of Paris_ ," Harry continued, "was one of her Lawson's final paintings, before she died in 1889. It was exchanged through several powerful wizarding families across Europe until the 1940s."

"Grindlewald." Daphne muttered darkly, earning a slow nod from Harry.

"The story goes that it was destroyed in a fire, _fiendfyre_ has a tendancy to do that. It was never seen again.However, my associate recently acquired, what he believes, is the _Lady of Paris_. Trouble is, I'm not so sure."

"How come?"

"Because I know what really happened to it, it wasn't burned, it was taken. One of Grindlewald's lieutenants, a rather insidious man by the name of Walter Faye, stole it. When he was arrested, he attempted to use it as a bargaining chip to secure his freedom."

"And you know this because?" Harry said nothing, but instead gave her his usual cocksure expression. "No way."

"Before I began consulting with the aurors, I visited Europe several times. I found it useful to observe other institutions, how they practice, and so on."

"And you just happened to arrest a mass murderer?"

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Daphne had heard stories about Faye, he was a legend in the right circles, and for all the wrong reasons. Daphne's father had been one of the English aurors who had attempted to find Faye when rumours of his presence in England surfaced. They'd failed, but only just.

"Bulgaria was of little interest to me, I needed something to stimulate my intellectual muscles, and, as it transpired, my actual ones. Faye was exceptionally difficult to capture. Not that the Bulgarian aurors thanked me much. In fact, I was never mentioned in the official report. When they asked him about the painting he refused to reveal its location. Naturally, they executed his sentence before I had chance to talk to him. Safe to say their approach is a little more, permanent, than ours."

"And the painting went back to being lost forever?" In the background of their conversation there was a faint click. Daphne breathed a sigh of relief as the trap on her wrist finally came undone.

"Exactly."

"But this could be it, couldn't it?" Daphne asked, rubbing her wrists as she untangled herself from the back of the wooden chair and got to her feet. "Someone could've just found it and decided to make a quick galleon."

"A very plausible theory, if this wasn't the second time I'd heard about it this month."

"Meaning there's more than one copy."

"One would assume so," Harry nodded, "these are to help me re-familiarise with the art world. I must confess, it is not something I am particularly interested in."

 _Course you aren't_ , Daphne thought, _it's all about human self-expression_. For as long as she had known Harry he had told her what and how he was feeling very few times. Ever since she had joined him in his complicated world he had kept his emotions to himself, more or less. There had been the instance after McAlister's arrest, but that had really been it. Tracey had called him emotionally stunted, but Daphne preferred the term wary. He could love, he just chose not to.

"Mum loves it," Daphne said, joining him in front of the paintings lined up on the wall. When she had first arrived they had been prattling away until Harry had placed a silencing charm on them. "Dad reckons she's spent a fortune on it. He's probably right. There was a Christmas once where she kept just buying the crap, couldn't move for bloody sales people."

"I take it you don't?"

"Me and mum don't exactly see eye to eye, I guess it was just another one of those things we disagree on."

"Like this. I know you still haven't told her. You cross your arms whenever you talk about her, it's classic defensive body language. Also I've noticed you're as eager to keep your name out of the papers as I am."

"Yeah, well, she wouldn't approve."

"A common theme with your mother," Harry noted. Daphne didn't argue. She couldn't, it was true. On the very first day she and Harry had met, Daphne had been worried about her mother's approval. Years later, and she still did. No matter what she did, Daphne had the suspicion that her mother would always see the scared, little eleven year old girl. Daphne just hoped that someday she'd stop feeling like one.

"It's fine, she's got Tori to be the perfect daughter. Did I tell you she's starting dating Zabini?"

"Once or twice. Might I ask why her approval matters so much?"

"It doesn't."

"And yet here we are discussing it," Harry pointed out, spotting the lie. "My advice, stop. You are clearly not the person she wishes you to be, but you not lesser either. You are simply you, anything else is a disservice."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," it was a classic deflection technique, and one Daphne used a lot. Harry would see through it, she knew, but it was worth a shot.

"My relatives wanted me to something I wasn't, for a while I attempted to fit that mould. Yet, I could never be what they wanted and so I stopped trying. I would urge you to do the same, and preferably soon."

"Soon? Why soon?"

"My resident art expert is out of the country and won't be back until November and I have little interest in visiting America. This case requires a new one and your mother seems to know the right people."

"No." Daphne said simply. Something inside her screamed.

"Yes, I really rather think it's time I met your parents."

"Can't you just find someone else?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I have particular habit of alienating certain types of people. Art experts, in particular, are what I would describe as fragile. Their entire profession is based on emotional sensitivity."

"So? Be nice."

"And by the time I have gained their trust, learned what they know, the seller of these forgeries could have gone to ground. The first has already been sold, and from what I've heard the second is being sold this week. If the forget, whoever they are, has any sense then they will make that their last. We are already behind and with no official report of a crime to the authorities our resources are somewhat limited."

"Is there really no-one else?"

"Not in the time."

Daphne wanted nothing more than to argue, but the more he talked, the more she knew was right. Hopkins would laugh in their face if they went to him now, or at least say there was nothing he could do. She sighed, and to think all she'd hoped to do that day was pick locks and learn the finer details of ward-crafting.

"Well, you're going to have to get changed. You can't meet mum dressed like that."

"Why not?"

"Do you want her to help you or think you're there begging for money?"

Harry looked down at his stained t-shirt, faded trousers and bare feet.

"Point taken, I will return presently."

"Can't wait," Daphne muttered darkly as he left the room. She let out a deep breath, the pictures on the wall all gave her a supportive half smile. The man with the wispy beard shot her a thumbs up. "Thanks guys, at least you've all got my back."

The woman in the middle painting smiled. Her lips were full and red and her face was beautiful. In the background, Daphne could see a busy street scene and a right in the background, just on the skyline a tall, thin building, surrounded by scaffolding. It took Daphne a minute to realise what it was. France looked different these days, but there was no denying it, that was the Eiffel Tower and the woman in the painting was no ordinary woman. She was _The Lady in Paris_.


	13. Meeting the Family

Chapter Thirteen: Meeting the Family

"You got conned."

"I did not get conned, it was a professional interest," Harry corrected as he and Daphne walked up the gravel driveway towards Greengrass manor. There were too many wards and safety charms for them to actually apparate near the house and Daphne hadn't gotten around to fixing the floo network in her flat. The auror's had taken it off the grid. It saved any accidental bystander walking into a crime scene.

"Sure, whatever you say." It was better to laugh at this, than to focus on why they were really walking up the path of Daphne's childhood home. She remembered the many party goers that had walked down this path, the way that the beautiful garden had been filled with luscious lights and the sound of music and laughter – even after her father had left.

"You're enjoying this."

"The Great Harry Potter getting fooled by a dodgy painting, too right I am." The gravel crunched under her heels, they felt uncomfortable, like an unfamiliar scent or that one friend nobody is quite sure how they keep talking to but somehow stays around. The manor loomed above them, a monolith of old stone and huge windows. To anyone else's eyes it would have appeared beautiful, to Daphne it was a monument to everything wrong about her childhood. She'd left as soon as she could have and every time she had to come back she hated it.

"I did not get fooled," Harry said tersely. "I was intrigued."

"How did you even find it?"

"They found me, I have not kept my interest in the painting a secret. Since I became aware of its existence I have been looking for it. I may not like art, but a lost canvas is still a mystery, particularly one of such importance."

"Did you really think it was the real one?"

"I acquired it a little over a month ago, in case you have forgotten I have been a little preoccupied."

It had been two months since the arrest of Hayley McAlister, Daphne's career change and the beginning of Harry's tutelage. They'd helped solve more than a few cases in their time together, so Daphne could understand why the painting had perhaps fallen in Harry's list of priorities.

"Doesn't answer the question."

"There have been very few cases of magical forgery, primarily because it is exceptionally difficult. However, given the paintings unique circumstances I cannot say I was entirely convinced of its origin."

"Because of the whole off the network thing."

"If it was possible to fake any painting it would be this one," Harry nodded. "Hence our need for professional assistance."

Daphne didn't say anything, she didn't need to. Harry knew full well what she was thinking, even if she hadn't told him he could read her. Absentmindedly she adjusted her robes, smoothing them out as they reached the stone steps that led to the huge oak door. They didn't have to knock. This was a magical house, knocking was a waste of precious time.

Slowly the door was pulled open and one of the Greegrass family elves greeted them. His tiny little outfit was white and embossed with the family crest. Had a stranger been watching, they would have been forgiven for not realising that a Greengrass daughter was coming home. The elf didn't even crack a smile.

"Hello Hoopy, is mother in?"

It was a loaded question, Joanne Greengrass had a busy social schedule, true, but it was one based around a strict regime. It rarely changed. Tuesday's was morning tea with the other wives, a stop for lunch and then Joanne and Astoria would go shopping around two. It was half one, lunch would just be finishing and they'd be deciding what best to wear.

"I shall be telling her you is here," said Hoopy without any semblance of enthusiasm. "Come in, young miss."

Hoopy had known Daphne for as long as the eldest Greengrass daughter could remember, and still he insisted on 'young miss'. A forced smile found its way onto Daphne's face and together she and Harry entered the Greengrass manor as Hoopy vanished with a loud crack. The manor hadn't changed. It was all dark woods and huge paintings. The various occupants smiled and waved at Daphne. She ignored them.

It wasn't a hallway, but a huge lofty atrium. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. A single chime rung out from the huge grandfather clock that stood against the ornate staircase and next to two equally well-crafted dark chairs. For waiting guests. Everything was neat and perfect. Daphne hated it.

She glanced at Harry, he had done what could truly be described as _his_ best to scrub up. He had a foot in both worlds and so rejected wizarding culture whenever he liked. One of those areas was clothes. Robes, he had said, were cumbersome and annoying. Instead he favoured a light coloured blazers, a dark navy shirt and a black trousers. It still wouldn't be enough for the lady of the house, a fact both visitors were painfully aware of; though only one of them cared.

Without a word he crossed to one of the paintings and began inspecting it, his hands in his pockets and his glasses perched on the end of his nose so as they didn't distort his vision at close-range. Daphne had often wondered why he didn't just get his eyes fixed, it was a simple procedure. She supposed that he rather liked being one of the few bespectacled people in the magical world. Just another thing that made him different.

"Quite the collector, your mother," Harry noted. "A Virone di Gioia."

"Is it?"

"Rather early one, you can tell from the hesistancy of the brush strokes and the basic palette."

"Quite the expert," the voice was high-pitched and had the kind of assurance that only came with a wagon load of galleons. Joanne Greengrass smiled from her position at the top of the stairs. Her robes, a deep midnight blue, were exquisite and her light blonde hair immaculate, not a single strand out of place. She had the face of an aging goddess and the manner of a queen.

"And Daphne, my dear, lovely to see you. I didn't know you'd be coming by."

"It's just a quick visit," said Daphne quickly, already feeling some defensive. Joanne let out a sophisticated laugh, the kind that belongs at a dinner party, as she descended the stairs.

"Nonsense, Hoopy," the elf appeared, "could you prepare some drinks and food for us in the drawing room?" the elf nodded and vanished.

"No, mum, really –"

"Come now, it's been months. Besides, it's not every day one of my daughters brings Harry Potter home."

Crystal blue eyes shifted to Harry. There was a brief moment of agonising expectation. Daphne just knew it would be something pig-headed and designed to annoy Joanne. It was how he was with everyone.

"Charmed, I'm sure."

Daphne stared.

"Polite and good-looking, you should try to keep hold of this one." _This can't be happening,_ Daphne thought. She was tempted to pinch herself, just so she could wake up from whatever hellish plain she'd fallen into. "I was so sorry to hear about Alex, dear. Such a shame, I expected better of him. His mother is distraught. I told her, you can't trust men. All the same, every one of them. No offense, Harry."

The reference to her father didn't go a miss, Daphne felt her jaw clench.

"None taken."

"Now, this way, the pair of you. Astoria will be down in a minute, I'm sure she'd love to see you, Daphne."

"Great," it wasn't. Daphne had gone to similar lengths to avoid her sister as she did her mother, though it worked rather well that the two were virtually inseparable.

They were shepherded out of the atrium and into the main hallway of the manor, more huge paintings lined the wall and Harry openly took in each one. Sullenly Daphne led the way, many of her constantly smiling ancestors watched her. Great grandparents, great, great uncles and aunts whose legacies she knew backwards, the cream of the Greengrass family out for everyone to see. Pride or vanity, it was really a matter of perspective.

The drawing room was equally as vast as every other room in the manor. Like most pureblood manors, it was ostentatious and filled sparsely decorated. The space was the thing. What made pureblood manors special was that they did not rely on magic for their size. They were huge by design. The table at the centre of the room was long and polished to a gleam. Silver goblets embossed with the family crest sat next to a gleaming tray positioned at one end and topped with cakes.

"Thank you, Hoopy, you may go back to your duties. Although, could you please tell Astoria that her sister is here?"

"Of course, Mistress."

"Please, sit," Joanne smiled, taking her position at the head of the table. Daphne remembered when it had been her father's chair. Merlin she missed the manor when her father had been there. It was far more… homely. This wasn't Daphne's home, just another museum to a family she didn't want to be a part of, like every other pureblood manor.

"Try the fancies," Joanne said conversationally, "they are wonderful."

Only she reached for one. Daphne sank into a high back chair, feeling like a child again. There was a vicious tension between resistance and a need for approval fighting inside Daphne. As much as she hated the manor, the things it stood for and what her mother had become; she couldn't shake the little girl who had looked up to her and desperately wanted to fit into the family.

"So, what is it you do, Harry?" Joanne asked, and it slowly dawned on Daphne that her mother thought this was a very different conversation. Her heart sank. "I must admit, I've heard very little of your exploits."

"I am a detective."

"I didn't know you had joined the Auror Office. Daphne's father worked there for some time, I'm sure she's told you."

"I work with the aurors, I am not one of them. I consult, it means that I am free to take up the cases of my choosing."

"How free-spirited." It was a neutral phrase swimming in opinion. "This would explain why Selwyn never mentioned you. He is the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." The name drop impressed no-one. "I have never heard of a consultant for the Office before, must be fascinating work."

Daphne arched an eyebrow at that particular comment.

"It is what leads me here, Daphne mentioned to me that you have a rather substantial interest in art. I find myself in need of an expert."

"I wouldn't call myself an expert, merely an enthusiastic amateur."

"You misunderstand, I would like to arrange a meeting with the people you purchase your art from. I have recently come into possession of something which I believe to be an excellent forgery, but I require a second opinion."

"You are aware of how difficult that is?" Something had changed in the air, suddenly Daphne felt her body tense.

"Difficulty is not the same as impossibility," Harry told her sharply, the mask of politeness slipping. "And once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. This, I believe, is very much the truth."

"It's a daydream, I think you've been watching, ah, what is it the muggles call them? _Films_." Her upper lip curled with disdain as her façade too creaked under the weight of what lay behind it. It was the face other people saved for serial killers and creeps. The generation divide had never been so obvious.

"Then prove me wrong."

"I'd rather not waste the time of good people on some crackpot theory. I suggest that you find your second opinion elsewhere. Now, if you would excuse us, Mister Potter, I would like a word with my daughter." It wasn't a request and Harry had the good sense to realise that. Slowly he rose to his feet, glancing at Daphne. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Subtly his expression softened and without a word, he left.

"I thought you had better taste," Joanne said bitterly when the door had shut behind Harry. "Harry Potter, really?"

"It's not like that," Daphne bit back quickly, "and even it was, which it _really_ isn't, what's wrong with him?"

"Do I really have to explain it? Even his godfather can't stand the sight of him. Blaise was saying just the other day that Potter bad news. He messes around with things that don't concern him and pretends he doesn't want the credit, just like he was at school apparently."

"He's not like that."

"Oh no? So he doesn't meddle in official auror investigations with the help of a healer? The very same healer who swore to her family that was what she wanted to do more than else." Daphne felt her blood run cold. "Did you seriously think I wouldn't find out?"

"Then what was all that stuff, asking about what he did?"

"I wanted to see whether he admit what you wouldn't."

"I was going to tell you." The words sounded feeble even as Daphne watched them fall out of her mouth, just like she always did.

"Just like you were going to tell me about Alex? I didn't realise I raised a liar."

Something inside Daphne snapped. She was sick of this judgement, sick of having to justify herself, sick of her mother's interfering habits and overbearing opinions. For once, Daphne's wish that could just live her life without her mother's interference had a voice, and now her voice was loud and her frustration taking flight.

"Why do you think I did? You don't exactly make it easy to tell you stuff, mum. I knew you'd say something like this, for once can't you just be –"

Daphne managed to stop herself before she said it. Her cheeks burned scarlet and she couldn't meet her mother's gaze.

"What?"

 _Proud of me?_

"It doesn't matter. You want the truth? Fine. I quit, there. It was about two months ago. I'd already met Harry when he was working on a case. I found a body, he was there and then, I don't know how but I was helping him. And it didn't stop. He kept coming to find me, asking me about cases and I couldn't imagine not being a part of that anymore. I love it. I'm actually doing something, something important."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that what you said about being a healer?"

"This is different."

"Isn't it always? Am I to expect, in a few years, that you've gotten bored of this too? Then it'll be time to start all over again. Or maybe you won't even get that far. Do you even know how dangerous this is? Do you know many times I waited up for you father, wondering if he would even come home?"

"Don't bring dad into this."

"Why shouldn't I? I'm sure you've already told him, haven't you?"

"No, I wanted to tell you together." Her mother scoffed, running her tongue over her bottom set of teeth and shaking her head. "I did. This wasn't my idea, alright? Harry needed help and he thought you might be able to point us in the right direction. You know what, for a bit so did I. Guess I was wrong."

A silence fell between them, painful and filled with the unsaid battle that had been going on between them since Daphne had been a little girl. Nothing she did was going to please her mother, because Daphne wasn't the woman that her mother wanted her to be. She wasn't the pureblood princess, or the ice queen that manipulated people to get what she wanted. She was just Daphne. More than once, Daphne wondered why that could never be good enough.

"I know you think I'm being stupid, but this is my life. You might be right, I might end up hating all this, and yeah, I could be rushing into it; but they're my mistakes to make. Not yours."

Her mother didn't even look up. She had picked up a tiny, elegant cake from the pointless stack and was examining it in her hand. Daphne wanted to scream, but there was no point. Just as she wasn't going to change, neither was her mother. It was like a veil had been lifted and she was finally realising the futility of what she was doing. So instead, Daphne just got up, making sure that the chair legs dragged across the precious hardwood floor.

She was only a pace or so from the door when her mother spoke.

"You're just like him, your father."

"Good, better than being like you."

Her heart heavy, and her fists clenched, Daphne stalked out of the room.

Harry was waiting for her in the atrium, his jacket buttoned and his expression stoic as a young woman attempted polite conversation. The two sisters looked nothing alike. Where Daphne's hair was a light shade of blonde and kept short, Astoria's was dark brown and long, cascading in smooth curls down to the small of her back. Beauty had smiled on Astoria, her cheekbones were strong, her nose was small and her smile was enchanting. Icy blue eyes, large and round, gave her the constant look of innocence. It was impossible to tell under her dark emerald robes, but Daphne knew that beneath them was a gorgeous figure. More than once, Daphne had found herself being immensely jealous of the lucky draw that her sister had been given.

"Are you okay?" Astoria asked quickly, dropping her attempt at small talk and focusing instead of her sister. "We thought we heard shouting."

"Fine," Daphne lied, "and you did. You should go talk to her, save me having to do it."

"Oh, Daph, you didn't –"

"What? Tell her the truth? God forbid she actually hear that for a change."

"Not this again." Astoria's tone was exasperated, as if somehow Daphne's life was some sort of minor inconvenience that could just be swept away under a rug and forgotten about.

"Yeah, you're right. Let's not." Daphne turned to Harry, she could feel the tears trying to force their way out of her eyes. "Can we go?"

"Of course." He nodded, he let Daphne lead the way out of the house, forming an insurmountable barrier between her and her sister.

"Daph, where are –" Astoria tried, but not very hard, she didn't even move.

"Anywhere but here."

They walked in silence, getting well clear of the front door. Daphne didn't let herself look back, she knew what the outcome would be if she did. Fighting back the tears, she desperately ploughed on ahead, just like she always did. Why had she let Harry convince her this was a good idea? It hadn't even taken that much. Maybe she'd just forgotten what her mother was really like, or perhaps, this was the final straw between them. Whatever it was, it was making her stomach heavy and she shoulders sag with every step she took away from the manor.

"What now?" Daphne asked eventually, unable to take the deafening silence that had grown between them. "I mean, that was a bust, right?"

"Perhaps not, I think I have been able to find us a lead."

"You're kidding me, you were gone for like ten minutes."

"Those paintings your mother is so fond of buying, before your sister interrupted me, I was able to give them a closer examination. I recognised the magic used to protect them only a handful of galleries use it, and only one of them has recently sold a di Gioia. I would wager it to be that one, the painting that used to be in that spot was somewhat bigger. I could tell by the discolouration of the wall."

"So you think you know where she bought them, great but how does that help us?"

"It's a start, I didn't say it was a very good one." Harry pointed out, they had reached the main gate now. It dissolved at the touch of Harry's wand, opening up the path to the world outside. There were no people, just a winding round a well-kept hedgerows. Birds sung, bee buzzed, it was a beautiful day and gorgeous view; but somehow Daphne couldn't see it.

"Would you like to accompany me? It's your choice, of course. I couldn't hear everything, but none of it sounded exactly what one describe as fun."

"Yeah, you're right there." She knew he was trying to be understanding, but he was awful at it. If she wanted sympathy, then Daphne would not choose Harry as her shoulder to cry on. Yet, here he was, attempting to be it anyway. He didn't make that kind of effort for anyone else, she had noticed over the last few months, he was different with her, more human.

"I would understand completely if you would like some time."

"No, I'm not gonna let her rule my life. Not anymore."

"It is difficult, to feel as though you are a disappointment. Perhaps this could be your first step in realising you are not."

Daphne couldn't help but smile, "thanks."

"Now, I believe we have an expert to find."

He held out his hand and she took it, in an instant she would be gone from this place, but Daphne knew really, deep down, she could never truly leave it behind. But she could put it in the distance.

* * *

 **AN: Hope you guys like this chapter, I'm looking for a beta for this story if anybody knows one. If want to, or know someone who does, could you please send me a PM. Thanks, until next!**


	14. Finding a Fence

_Magical Art is the creation and suspension of a personality. It is not an actual person, instead it is safer to think of the character in the painting as a faithful recreation of the subject. The painting does have a form of memory, but those memories are separate and distinct from those coveted by the real life subject._

 _It is for this reason that it is safer to keep the painting separate from the wider 'society', for want of a better word, of other paintings. They are windows, for us, not them. Allowing them freedom creates the potential for desire, for want, for more. While there has never been a recorded case, there is the very possible that the creation could wish to create. It may sample so much that sampling can no longer be enough. My paintings are not a part of this society. Each of my creations has their limits, their slice of reality._

 _J. Lawson, Taming the Tapestry_

Chapter Fourteen: Finding a Fence

Muggle art galleries, no matter how snobby they are, are always located in the centre of great towns and cities. It's a matter of convenience, even the rich can't teleport. This was not the case for magical ones, and was the reason that Daphne found herself, not in a vast city staring at a gorgeous marble building; but rather on the outskirts of Manchester.

"Is this really it?"

"Disguise is the illusion of expectation," Harry told her as he led the way down the dusty and muddy road towards a huge abandoned factory. The roof had long since caved in and Daphne wondered if she had even been alive when it had fallen into disrepair. One chimney stood tall and proud amongst a cluster of smaller, broken and stunted comrades.

"This was once an old muggle factory," Harry explained, "the Industrial Revolution was largely responsible for this country's success. We stand in its ruins. Thankfully, muggles are rather forward thinking and so this building has been allowed to decay and about fifty years ago it became the home for Eden's Gallery."

"Not much of a garden," Daphne noted. They had reached the large doors, the paint was peeling and the eerie sound of wind drifting through the old building. Somewhere a bird flapped its tiny wings, causing a gigantic cacophony of noise. The place looked like a horror writer's dream, yet inside Daphne knew that it would be lavish. If her time at St. Mungo's had taught her anything it was that appearances could be deceiving.

"I suspect they were attempting to be ironic."

He drew his wand and turned it on himself.

"What are you doing?" Daphne asked, not in horror but mild interest. She had learned just to accept when Harry started doing strange things, there was usually a reason and even if there wasn't there was very little she could do to stop him.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I have what some may call 'a recognisable face'."

"The whole saviour of the wizarding world thing," Daphne nodded.

"Plus detective, I'd rather not alert them to our true reason for being here. In case the information finds its way back to our forger."

"And we're done before we've started," Daphne finished.

"Precisely." After a few moments of concentrated spell work he looked completely different. His hair was a dark red and his eyes a new shade of brown, rather than emerald green. His face too was different, instead of being defined and rather thing it was now rounder, his cheeks were slightly chubby too and the home several freckles. He looked more like a cast-off Weasley than Harry Potter.

"What do you think?"

"I would walk past you in the street."

"Excellent."

With that he turned his wand to the door and tapped it. The iron handle glowed golden briefly, until it met the skin of Harry's palm and then it went dull again. It should have creaked as it opened, instead the door swung freely and with ease and the two were met, not with an abandoned factory, but with a large white room. The marble floor sparkled, golden frames gleamed on the walls, and small clusters of well-dressed witches and wizards gathered round various pictures in the octagonal room.

A gigantic staircase took up much of the middle of the hall, at the foot of it sat a large and imposing desk. Silver inkwells shone, expensive quills perched from their depths, looking more like ornaments than functional office stationary. Two witches sat behind the desk, one blonde and the other red-headed, but both looked almost interchangeable. Their smiles, plastered onto their face as soon as they heard the door, was sparkling and classy. Their skin was perfect and their faces were on an annoyingly similar level of perfection.

"Hello and welcome to Eden's Gallery," said the first witch, the blonde one, as Daphne and Harry approached the desk. Daphne was starting to have her fill of fake smiles and beautiful women for one day and it was barely even mid-afternoon. "Is there any way in which we can be of assistance?"

Daphne could think of a few, but none of them were fair or strictly legal.

"We're looking for a Mister Arthur Drake," the second witch's face stiffened slightly. The first witch looked utterly unfazed, however. Harry stood stock still, his back perfectly straight and his eyes slightly narrowed.

"Mister Drake is fully booked for the rest of the month, as curator I'm sure that you understand he is a busy man and so -"

"Too busy for one of his best clients?" Harry asked, taking a pace forwards and closing the distance between himself on the desk. He surveyed the two women with a stern glare, the kind that he usually reserved for murders or people who beat him at chess. It looked a lot less intimidating coming from his new face though. "Or would you rather I return to Joanne Greengrass without having seen him? She's in market for a new piece, as her advisor it is my job to see that she selects from only the most appropriate list, you understand?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mister Drake has asked to be undisturbed for the day."

Harry's lie hadn't worked. At least, not yet.

"I told you not to come here," Daphne snapped snidely, keeping her tone clipped and self-righteous. She gave a huff and clicked her tongue, folding her arms and becoming the model of impatience. "Arcturus would never give us this type of service. He respects his clients."

"Your mother insisted."

"My mother has no taste, you should know that by now."

Out in the gallery people were starting to look, the kind of sideways glances that damaged reputations far more than obvious stares. Someone hurriedly sidled up the stairs, desperate to not be seen.

"She insisted." Harry repeated.

"And what dear mother wants, she gets."

"It's my job to know what she wants."

"And it's mine to know what she needs," Daphne snapped back, strangely enjoying the odd path that this conversation had taken. Their muted fight was gaining attention, people loved overhearing things that weren't supposed to more than a shouting match in the street. "What is not on that list is being stopped by these pathetic excuses for witches." She waved a hand at the receptionists, the less confident of which was looking like she feared for her job. "Would you like to floo her? Or should I?"

"That really won't be nec-" the second witch tried to interject, but Daphne had already rounded on her. The poor woman practically wilted. It took everything Daphne had not to instantly apologise but carry on pretending like she thought the world existed only for her own convenience.

"Oh, won't it? Just like it was not necessary for us to meet with your curator today? I didn't realise my family's desires had to be filtered through you first."

"I'm sorry, but he told us that -"

"It's alright," a man's voice called calmly. The man in question was tall, with a hair-cut that looked more expensive than all of Harry's clothes put together and the kind of finely tailored robes that didn't actually drown him. He strode down the stairs with a quiet, almost unassuming air of confidence. A charming smile was shot at the receptionist, who by this point was clearly flustered and wishing she'd chosen to pretend to be sick rather than come into work.

"Miss Greengrass, my apologies," the man said once he had reached the desk. Everyone else in the gallery had gone back to what they were doing, apparently not wanting to attract the eye of the man whom Daphne could only assume was the curator. "My staff were simply doing as they were instructed, you understand."

"Instruction does not prevent intuition," Harry pointed out, playing the role of Daphne's mother's associate rather brilliantly.

"It's quite alright," Daphne said politely, in the way that her mother always did when the opposite was clearly the case. "But now that you are here, would it be possible to talk further in your office?"

"Of course," Drake smiled, simpering only mildly.

A dark look passed between the two witches at the desk almost as soon as their boss's watchful gaze moved from them. Idly Daphne wondered what kind of glare they would reserve for her and Harry when their backs were turned, she doubted it would be anything good. Drake led them up the stairs where he'd come from, letting Daphne and Harry set the tone for small talk and given that Daphne knew nothing about art and Harry hated idle chit chat, they walked in silence.

The office was spacious, with an unnecessarily large oak desk taking up only a tiny fraction of it. On each wall was an array of paintings. Some large, others small, all of them by famous artists. Daphne recognised the odd style here and there as something her mother would own. No wonder she loved this place.

"Please, Miss Greengrass take a sit," Drake's tone matched almost everyone's when they found out Daphne's last name and were trying to sell her something. It was: 'polite with eyes on your gold'. "And your associate, Mister?"

"Chesterton-Smith, Miles Chesterton-Smith."

"From what I could gather by you conversation with my assistants," Drake said calmly, as if people shouting at each other in his gallery was perfectly normal, "you were in the market for a new piece?"

"A specific piece, actually." Harry nodded as he and Daphne sank into the offered chairs. They were exceptionally comfortable, the kind of comfort that only a serious amount of cushioning charms could provide. "Though, I must ask that you keep our interest in this strictly between us, you understand?"

"Of course, I offer my clients nothing but the highest discretion."

The smile was devilish and the intense sincere. Places like this relied on trust. Promises to keep purchases secret if necessary, or to hold a piece for a particularly important person. A smooth word here, a calm assurance there could be the difference between a barren month and a prosperous one.

" _The Lady of Paris_." So much for subtlety.

"I beg your pardon? You realise that painting has been lost for decades, of course."

"We heard differently." Daphne chimed in. She couldn't let Harry have all the fun.

"Then I'm afraid you're mistaken, if the painting had been recovered the entire art world would be aware. It would be the discovery of the century."

"And unofficially?"

"What are you suggesting, sir?"

"That you're crooked as leprechaun gold and that you know more than you're saying."

"I don't know what you mean," Drake said stiffly, "and, as for you Miss Greengrass, I really had expected you to associate yourself with better sorts."

The way he said it suggested that there was no worse insult in his entire vocabulary.

"I associate myself with the best."

"Pity the same can't be said for you." Harry added as he leant back on his chair, dark eyes scanning the room. He loved this part, having all the answers and watching his prey squirm. Daphne couldn't deny that it was entertaining. Sweat was visibly glistening on Drake's brow. His weasel eyes darted between the two of them. No doubt his heart was hammering against his ribs like a captured bludger.

"And before you ask, it's because I can recognise a stasis charm when I see one."

Before Drake had chance to deny it, Harry had already flicked his wand at the large painting behind his desk. It was of a man, his huge bushy moustache had been trapped in a moment of stillness the entire time they had sat there, but suddenly it bristled as he spluttered to life.

"Good heavens!" he roared good-naturedly. "What happened? Who are you people? Where's Deirdre?"

Another flick and the man went silent once more.

"It's neat trick, to make it look like a replica and then presumably sell on a forgery. I must commend you, art fraud is exceptionally difficult. Although, pick the right painting, find the proper idiot and a clever man like you can see an opportunity. So that's what? Fraud, theft, and potential embezzlement; depending on what you did with the money. I could go on, but I really would rather wait for the trial, wouldn't you? Much more dramatic."

"What do you want?"

"What we asked for: _The Lady of Paris_."

"That's it?" Drake asked incredulously. "Fine, there's not much to tell. A few rumours. I didn't believe them myself. I haven't seen it, you understand?"

"Who's the seller?" Daphne pressed, Harry left her to it. Every time he did Daphne couldn't help but shake the sense of pride that rose from her stomach. He considered her an equal. The man who hated everyone.

"Supposedly Matt the Rat, old-school fence by all accounts but I've had unpleasant dealings with him in the past."

"Then that concludes our business," Harry nodded leaping to his feet. "Thank you, Mister Drake. You've been most informative."

"My pleasure," the irony didn't go unmissed, even by Harry. Drake didn't bother to show them out. He just glared. Men like that hated having power taken from them, least of all by people they didn't know. Imagine if he'd known the truth, Daphne pondered as she followed Harry back down to the gallery and then out into the fresh air.

"You know this guy?"

"More than I care to."

"Think he'll help?"

"Me? No. I was responsible for his arrest ten years, funnily he hasn't forgiven me for it. But you? That might just work. If you're up for it, of course?"

Daphne smiled.

"What did you have in mind?"


End file.
